by Gav Thorpe
"Jutaar is dead. Allenya probably doesn't even know yet. This isn't her fault. I can't have her death on my hands as well."
"Fault? What has fault go to do with anything? Was it that messenger's fault that he happened to carry Anglhan's letter?"
"I acted in anger. I'll not repeat the mistake with my wife's life."
"And so we come back to where all of these conversations seem to end. You did so much to take my Crown, but now that you have it you have become weak. Perhaps we are seeing the lie of your ambition. You did not kill Lutaar because the empire was growing soft. You stole the Crown for yourself. The first small hurdle, the first obstacle Anglhan throws in your path, and you cringe from what you have to do."
"I will find another way," said Ullsaard. He stood up and faced Askhos, fists balled at his sides. "Anglhan will pay for what he has done."
"Words, words, words! Do what you have to do, Ullsaard. Destroy Magilnada; kill this traitor that makes a mockery of you. I felt the shame you felt, when you had to order your army to stand down. It sickened me more than you can imagine. I heard those Salphor bastards laughing, heard the discontent amongst our men. And you explain nothing to them. You cannot. You know they will tell you the same thing I am telling you know. Destroy Anglhan. Pay the price you have to pay."
"I will not!"
"And you will fail. Piece by piece, Greater Askhor will crumble without strength, without the respect for the Blood that held it together. The governors will see your weakness and they will take your power. They will fight like dogs over the scraps of the empire's carcass. If you are lucky, you will not live long enough to see it."
"And you? When I die, what happens to the almighty, immortal Askhos? Perhaps it is that fear that drives you? When I am gone, will you be gone as well?"
Askhos sagged, the point of his gaze moving into the flames.
"I do not know. Perhaps the end of Ullsaard will be the end of Askhos." He turned his attention back to the king. "It will certainly be the end of Greater Askhor."
"Then we both have good reason to keep me alive," Ullsaard said. He smiled grimly and folded his arms across his scarred chest. He wondered briefly why his dream-body was still marred by the marks of his worldly injuries while Askhos seemed untouched. The thought fluttered away as it soon as it appeared. "Maybe now you realise you should be doing everything you can to help me, rather than arguing against every course I choose?"
Askhos laughed and shrugged.
"Maybe I will have to accept that. It is such a shame that you did not kill Kalmud and Ersuan as well as Aalun. With my mind and your body, I could have done great things."
"There's no reason we can't do great things as we are."
The dead king studied Ullsaard shrewdly for some time. He gave a slight nod and smiled.
"No reason at all."
TEMPLE
I
The words meant nothing, yet the incessant chants reverberating from the stone echoed within Erlaan's bones and skittered along his nerves. He lost himself in the monotony. There were no days and no nights, no mealtimes and no need to sleep. Time did not pass, yet his heart beat, his lungs filled and emptied, the invocation changed in pitch and tempo. This place was timeless, yet it was eternal.
He watched over his father, from a stool set beside Kalmud's bed. Like all else, Erlaan's father did not move, his condition neither worsening nor improving. In the Temple, he felt closer to his father than ever before, an almost physical link between them. When he laid his hand upon Kalmud's chest or brow, Erlaan's flesh tingled at the touch. He felt the flickers of fevered dreams that raged in his father's mind.
"It is the power of the Blood."
Erlaan looked to the doorway and saw the withered high priest Lakhyri, standing motionless in the square arch as if he were a statue that had always been there. When he spoke, only his lips moved, the barest twitch of muscle beneath the taut skin of his face, every other part of him frozen.
"The same energy that fuels the Blood is the source of the Temple's power," Lakhyri continued. "That is why you feel its presence, why you feel that you belong in this place."
"The chanting, it draws in the energy of the world," Erlaan said. "I sense the ebb and flow of its tides. I feel something else, though, a tugging at my spirit, like a hole that opens up beneath us."
"The power of the Temple is weakening," Lakhyri said with a single, slow nod. "It took much of the remaining energy to bring you and your father to this place."
"Why did you? Why are we so important that you would do that?"
"You are the true heirs to the Blood. It is imperative that you survive. The Blood must rule the empire. You will be restored to your rightful place and the course of the empire shall be corrected, returning to the path that has been laid down."
"What of Ullsaard? He is king now. Why is he so wrong for Askhor?"
The tiniest flicker of agitation passed across Lakhyri's face, so fleeting that Erlaan wondered if he had imagined it.
"He is a usurper," said the high priest. "He does not belong. He is not part of the plan. Your father is the true heir to the empire, and you after him."
"That's why you're keeping him alive?"
Lakhyri's lips twisted fractionally at the corners, distorting the runes carved into his cheeks. Erlaan realised it was a smile, more grotesque and frightening than anything he had seen. What could amuse such a creature?
"It is not I who sustains your father, nor the powers of the Temple. It is from you that he draws sustenance. You give over to him your own life. Every moment that you feed him with your spirit is a moment taken from your mortal span."
Erlaan instinctively drew back his hand from Kalmud's chest, and felt a sudden pang of guilt that his natural reaction was so selfish. Even so, he did not put back his hand.
"Why did you not tell me sooner?" the prince asked.
"So that you would know what it feels like to make such a decision."
"Decision? What decision?"
"Whether your father lives or dies."
As horrifying as the idea was, Erlaan felt no shock at the thought of his father's life being in his hands. This was a place that teetered on the line between life and death, existence and oblivion. The idea of responsibility, of becoming king, had terrified Erlaan, but in the Temple there was nothing that felt more natural.
"The choice you face is harsher than you think," said Lakhyri, breaking Erlaan's train of thought.
"Harsher? What could be harsher than life or death?"
"A quick or slow death. I see from your eyes that you already are considering whether it is worth the expenditure of your life to perpetuate this half-existence of your father. There is another option. That flutter of life that still beats in your father's breast, it is weak, but it exists. It is in your power to take it for yourself."
"Steal his life force?" It was a genuine inquiry, not an admonishment. Erlaan wondered why the suggestion did not fill him with disgust. Why did he spend even a moment contemplating such a thing?
"Your father's opportunity has passed, Erlaan." It was the first time Lakhyri had addressed him by name. The high priest stepped into the room. His words were delivered in the same flat manner as before, without pity or distaste, but his eyes betrayed just a shred of lingering humanity as he continued. "Your chance is now. To let your father dwindle away would be doubly disrespectful. End his suffering now, and use the last of his strength for yourself, to reclaim that which belongs to you."
Erlaan said nothing, but his mind was awhirl with the implications. His father's life hung by a narrow thread, all that remained between Erlaan and becoming the heir to Askhos. Was it selfishness to cut that thread, or was it a mercy? He turned back to Kalmud and placed the tips of his fingers on his cold brow.
"The empire has already taken his life," said Erlaan. "It would be a waste to let what remains slip away without purpose. What do I do?"
"You already know."
Taking a breath, Erlaan stared at
his stricken father. He could feel the tremor of a pulse, not in his fingers, but somewhere deeper, in his veins. It took no effort, Blood calling to Blood, drawing to its own. Erlaan felt the slightest shift within, a momentary change of current between him and Kalmud.
His father's heart stopped and a last breath whispered from Kalmud's lips.
"I have little to offer," said Erlaan, closing his father's eyes before turning to Lakhyri.
"What are you willing to give?" said the priest.
"I have no experience as a leader of men, and I am no great warrior. I would not call myself brave by any measure."
"These things I can give you, if you are willing. It will not be easy, and it will not be pleasant. What will you do to reign as king?"
Erlaan looked at his father and thought of his dead grandfather and uncle. He was the last of the Blood, save for the bastard who now wore the Crown. It was Erlaan's birthright to rule, and he recalled Ullsaard's words to him, an assertion the general had made to assuage the prince's doubts, which Erlaan had etched into his memory during the long days and nights he had spent in Askh, fearfully waiting by his father's side. 'You are what you are, and it is in you to embrace that destiny. You owe it not only to yourself, but to the people you will rule and your forefathers.'
The prince met the implacable glare of Lakhyri.
"My family have given their lives for the Crown. I would offer nothing less. My body and my spirit, if needed."
Lakhyri accepted this declaration with a slow blink.
"Your life will not be necessary. Your spirit, your body… that is a different matter."
GERIA
Summer, 211th year of Askh
The herald waited with his helmet under one arm, eyes roving around the great hall of the palace looking at the murals on the walls and ceiling, examining the delicate tiles of the mosaic underfoot; his eyes looked everywhere except at Urikh.
The prince carefully read the missive from Harrakil, deciphering the First Captain's infantile strokes. When he was finished he leaned across from his chair and handed the letter to his mother, sat on his right.
"You know the contents of this?" Urikh asked the herald.
"Yes, prince. Captain Harrakil said I was to add anything else you might ask."
"These Mekhani attacks, how frequent are they?"
"Before I left, there had been seven in thirty days, prince. All along the border. Raids, mostly."
"Raids? Three towns have been destroyed!"
"Yes, prince. No survivors. We don't know how big the Mekhani forces were. There have to be several armies, to attack so many places so quickly. Leviira and Hanalun had garrisons of three hundred men each, prince. Wiped out to the man."
"Captain Harrakil tells me that captives were taken."
"Yes, prince. Slaves, most likely."
Luia stirred, folding her hands in her lap, the letter in her grasp.
"The Mekhani do not take slaves," she said. "Not before now."
"That's right, queen. We don't know why they've started."
"What else don't you know?" asked Urikh, keeping his tone mild.
"I don't understand, prince."
"Who is leading these Mekhani attacks? What is Harrakil going to do about them? What extra forces does he need?"
"He was waiting on your orders, prince, which I'm supposed to return with. There's no way of telling where the next attack will come, or when. The border's more than five hundred miles, from the Greenwater to the mountains. The captain's worry is that if we split up, we'll be picked off like the garrisons."
"Three quarters of the legion is already in the area," said Luia. "Are nearly five thousand troops not enough for Harrakil?"
"Though he would never say it himself, queen, I think the captain would need at least twice that number to patrol the border. More, if you want him to head into Near-Mekha and chase down the bastards."
"Three legions?" Urikh laughed. "Where does he think I can get another ten thousand men?"
"Perhaps you could send word to the king?" suggested the herald, eyes fixed firmly on a detail of the mosaic.
"Thank you, we will send for you," Luia said before Urikh could reply. The governor glanced at his mother, annoyed, but recognised the intent look on her face.
"Yes, refresh yourself and return this evening," said the prince. "I will have a message for you to take back to captain Harrakil."
The herald bowed and departed, his hard-soled kolubrid boots clicking on the tiled floor. When the tall double doors of the hall closed behind the messenger, Urikh turned to Luia.
"Do you really think it is a good idea to request legions from Ullsaard at the moment? He is probably a thousand miles into Salphoria by now, and no doubt having immense fun."
"He will thank you little for allowing Okhar to be overrun by Mekhani savages while he is away conquering new lands," Luia replied. She smoothed her long dress, hands running over the dark blue Maasrian silk. "There could be another way to get the soldiers you need."
"No, not the other governors," Urikh replied with a shake of the head. "You know they would insist on payment, over the odds. The cost would be extortionate. Trade is barely half what it was two years ago and there are some parts of Okhar that have not paid their taxes since I took power. There is simply not enough money in the city vaults and I am not going to the moneylenders."
"Sometimes you will have to delve deeper than the official coffers, Urikh."
"Family money?" Urikh almost choked on the suggestion.
"Nobles have been raising new legions all over the empire to join my husband on his jaunt," said Luia. "Thanks to Nemtun's exploits trying to stop your father, Okhar is woefully under strength. The Greenwater is vital, the border with Mekha volatile, and to duskwards you have the hill tribes on the Salphorian border; and to deal with all of that you have barely a single legion. Maasra, peaceful Maasra with her Nemurian neighbours, boasts three legions. Enair has four. The situation is unsustainable."
"I will write to Ullsaard," said Urikh, deciding that any solution that did not involve spending his own money was preferable.
"It could be the end of the summer before we receive his reply." Luia stood up, adjusted the slender silver chain that served as her belt, straightened her necklace and fixed her son with a hard stare. "You best hope that your father is in a generous mood, and that nothing drastic happens to hotwards. Make no mistake, if Ullsaard thinks you are not up to the task of being governor, he will replace you, son or not."
"You would never let him do that."
Only Luia's look offered argument to Urikh's assumption. She turned away, saying nothing, and left the hall by a side door. The patter of bare feet announced the arrival of several servants, buckets of water and brushes in hand. As they set to work scrubbing the floor tiles, Urikh sat deep in thought, composing the letter he would have to send his father. If he could find some way to make it look like he was taking assertive action and needed the soldiers for expansion, not defence, his message was more likely to be welcomed.
With the proper phrasings coming to mind, Urikh strode from the great hall with determined steps, heading for his study.
FREE COUNTRY
Midsummer, 211th year of Askh
I
More than a dozen heralds crowded into the king's pavilion. Ullsaard's scribe, Lasok, sat behind a small field table with a pile of scrolls, handing one out to each messenger in turn before crossing off a corresponding entry on a wax tablet. Ullsaard sat on his campaign chair watching the proceedings with a dour expression, chin cupped in his hand, elbow on the arm of the throne.
Anasind pushed his way through the throng and bowed quickly. He glanced over his shoulder at the heralds.
"Fresh orders?" he asked. "Will we be moving out soon?"
"No," Ullsaard said with a slow shake of the head. "The legions are staying exactly where they are."
"I understand that you do not have to tell me what's going on, but if I can help?"
 
; Ullsaard beckoned the First Captain closer and waved to one of the stools arranged around the throne. Anasind swept his cloak out of the way and sat down, leaning close to hear the king's soft words.
"Our woes are not restricted to Salphoria," Ullsaard said with a heavy sigh. "I received word last night from Urikh. Those Mekhani we left behind are stirring up trouble on the hotwards border."
"Surely Urikh can cope with a few troublesome savages," said Anasind. "It doesn't say much for his suitability as a governor, if you forgive me saying."