The Crown of the Conqueror

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The Crown of the Conqueror Page 26

by Gav Thorpe


  He smiled. He was ready to take his rightful place.

  ASKH

  Late Summer, 212th year of Askh

  I

  The blare of a hundred trumpets split the air from the walls of Askh, heralding the return of the king. Leading a bodyguard of five hundred legionnaires picked up from the governor of Ersua, Ullsaard marched back to his capital; the fifty men that had accompanied him through Salphoria had been given ten days' leave in Askh as reward for their service.

  Even before he had reached the massive gatehouse Ullsaard could hear the sounds of the crowd waiting within the city. Drums pounded and music skirled against a backdrop of voices echoing from the tall buildings. He could barely hear the tramp of the legionnaires twenty paces behind him.

  Plunging into the darkness of the gate, the king was surrounded by the sound, ringing from the arched tunnel. Thirty paces ahead the light of the sun made a bright arch in the gloom, through which Ullsaard could already see coloured banners waving and lines of soldiers keeping the Royal Way clear.

  Emerging into the sunlight, the roar that greeted him was deafening. Dancing girls, naked save for a few wisps of silk, twirled across the cobbles in front of him, scattering petals in his path. Thousand were shouting his name, calling for his attention, clamouring with each other for a glance or a wave, while legionnaires with linked arms strained to hold back the mass of people. Children threw handfuls of salt and grain at his feet from baskets wreathed in ivy leaves. The street was packed, a path less than ten strides across open before him. People had clambered onto every roof and garret, hung from every window and shouted down at their ruler from dangerously full balconies.

  Ullsaard stopped in his tracks, dazed by the sound and spectacle.

  He looked at the sea of excited faces, seeing women with tears rolling down their cheeks and men pumping their fists in the air, chanting madly. Poles carrying effigies of Salphors danced above the crowd, the stuffed figures upon them jerking on the end of nooses tied from thorny vines.

  Amongst the throng, Ullsaard spied a familiar face a short way off to his left, hanging back on the near side of the legionnaires' cordon.

  "Leerunin!" the king called out.

  The man smiled briefly but without conviction, obviously distressed by the attention. Ullsaard's former treasurer, appointed court chamberlain by the king before he had departed, wiped a cloth over his balding scalp and scuttled forward at Ullsaard's beckoning finger.

  "What the fuck is this?" the king asked out of the corner of his mouth, still grinning at the jubilant crowds.

  "It is a celebration of your victories in Salphoria, king," said Leerunin. He bobbed apologetically. "Is it not to your liking?"

  "How much is it costing me?"

  "Not a tin, I assure you," said the chamberlain. "The city merchants and the nobles have offered this parade as a gift in recognition of your accomplishments."

  Ullsaard started walking, Leerunin hovering at his shoulder like an obedient hound.

  "So you haven't passed on the contents of my last letter to them?" said the king.

  "I deemed it unwise to apprise the council of the severity of the current setbacks of the situation with regard to the continuing heroic campaign in Salphoria and the problems arising in Okhar," said Leerunin, once again amazing Ullsaard with his ability to spin out the simplest of answers into the longest of sentences.

  "Why would it be unwise?"

  "The imperial economy had been soundly boosted by your exploits to duskwards and many contracts and transactions have been sealed on the understanding of the accruement of wealth from future conquests and discoveries."

  "I see," said Ullsaard, though he didn't but was sure a better explanation could wait. "Let me make sure I have this right. None of the nobles or powerful merchant houses know that the Salphorian campaign has stalled and the Mekhani are giving us grief?"

  Leerunin hesitated for a moment, struggling with the concept of giving a simple answer before sighing heavily.

  "That is correct, king," he said.

  "And they have spent a lot of money – money they don't actually have yet – throwing me a welcome back gala?"

  Again Leerunin squirmed.

  "That is also correct, king."

  Ullsaard said nothing more, allowing the chamberlain to silently writhe in a misery of his own making, until they reached the bottom of the Royal Hill, where the broad road split around the mound.

  "I am going to take the long route, through Maarmes, while you are going to head straight up the mount and assemble as many of the nobles and merchants as you can find in the next hour. Bring them to the Hall of Askhos so that I might address them."

  "Yes, king, I shall do as you say forthwith and wi–"

  "Now," Ullsaard growled. Leerunin set off at a brisk jog, breaking away from the route of the parade.

  Ullsaard had faced down many foes in his time, and had gladly marched to battle against each and every one of them. The thought of disgruntled merchants and out-of-pocket nobles filled him with a deeper agitation than any confrontation he had yet encountered. His grip on the Crown was loose at best, and it had been the promise of Salphoria that had secured the backing of the most powerful families in the empire. Now he would be forced to explain his failure, yet at the same time not reveal the true secret of what held his wrath at bay; the nobles would care not one jot for Ullsaard's family and would be likely to take the matter out of his hands if they knew the truth. Add to that the risk of Mekhani attack in Okhar – from tribes he should have subjugated when instead Ullsaard had been warring against his own king – and the situation looked even worse.

  Despite the triumphant shouts, the placards with their mottos of victory, the swirling streamers, the laughing children, Ullsaard did not feel much like celebrating.

  II

  The chipping of the mason's chisel rang coldly from the marble walls and floor. Ullsaard sat alone at the end of the Hall of Askhos, lounging in a large, plain chair of black wood. Around him had been carved the names of the fallen, those who had given their lives for the glory of Askhor since the founding of the First Legion. Line after line of tiny script named more than two hundred thousand casualties of Askhor's wars. There were so many that the walls were nearly half-filled.

  Ullsaard had only come here once before, during his investiture as a general of the empire. He had read some of the names, wondered about the men they represented. Several thousand were simply listed as 'Legionnaire of the Empire'; these came in blocks signifying the few defeats sufficiently disastrous that the dead could not be distinguished from the deserter.

  Had they been brave or cowards? Had they died on the field, from their injuries, or swiftly despatched by their companions to ease their suffering? The weight of so many dead was a terrible burden, and the knowledge that the names being constantly added were now Ullsaard's responsibility was heavy on his shoulders. As a commander, he had led men to their deaths for the ambitions of others. As king, it was his ambition that waged bloody war.

  That was the point, Askhos told him. Since returning to the capital, and closer proximity to the Crown, the dead king had been a constant presence in Ullsaard's thoughts. A leader of men must ask others to sacrifice their lives for his cause, but he should never treat their deaths cheaply nor allow their deeds to go unrecorded.

  Ullsaard said nothing. He was tired. He had slept little, fearful of Askhos's influence, retiring to his bed only when he was so exhausted he fell into dreamless sleep. He was fatigued from a day of dealing with dignitaries and petitioners; of having to tell the great and the good of Askh that the war in Salphoria was not progressing well and that the expenses they had incurred would not be recouped for a considerable time. He had chosen this place for his audiences to remind the nobles and the merchants, the bankers and the fleet captains, of the price others were paying for the campaign. Some had been moved by the sombre memorial; many had been so self-absorbed they had barely considered their surroundings as they wh
ined about the money they were losing.

  Ullsaard's thoughts turned to the Crown. It was locked in the palace vaults along with the dwindling treasures of the king. He did not know whether it was the presence of Askhos or his own fear that prevented him from wearing it, but its absence from his brow had been remarked upon more than once since he had returned.

  "Leave me," Ullsaard called out to the mason. The wiry man nodded, packed his chisel and padded mallet into his belt and clambered down the scaffold on which he had been sitting. When he was gone, Ullsaard addressed Askhos.

  "I can't deal with the situation in Magilnada and the Mekhani at the same time. The treasury is almost empty, and the nobles will not be putting up any more money for the campaign any time soon. Tax revenues are low, and slow to come in. I'm paying legions in Salphoria to stand idle. Anglhan is strangling trade through the Magilnada gap. I had hoped to hire some Nemurians to bolster the armies, but there is not the money for more than a handful. I thought the resources of the empire were inexhaustible. It seems I was woefully wrong."

  Are you asking for my advice, or simply complaining?

  Ullsaard hesitated, kneading his knotted brow with his fingers.

  "I need your help," he admitted. He sighed heavily. "There are so many decisions to make. Everyone has plenty of advice, but every piece comes with another demand for action, another choice to make."

  You thought being king would be a mere matter of leading the armies to victory and everything else would fall into place?

  Ullsaard grunted and slumped to one side, elbow on the arm of the chair.

  "Maybe. I have a chancellor, governors, paymasters, engineers all filling my head with information, expecting me to make sense of it all."

  You know the advice I would give.

  "The Brotherhood." Ullsaard shook his head. "How can I trust them?"

  You misjudge them, and their loyalty. The Brotherhood is dedicated to the success of the empire and not one man. Only one, the High Brother, knows the truth of my existence. With the line broken, you are the rightful king. The Brotherhood will ease away the many pains of rule, allowing you to concentrate on the matters that are truly important. I could not have founded the empire without them. Like you, I have no mind for figures and commerce, though I have picked up much strategy over the years. Do not carry burdens others are willing to bear for you.

  Ullsaard sorrowfully shook his head and scratched at his chin.

  "It's too late," he said. "I do not know how to start the rebuilding of the Brotherhood. Most of the Brothers fled, some are under house arrest, and I have several thousand of them under guard in a camp at Parmia. I don't know what to do with them, or how to start things moving again."

  You are the king. There is still one right you have yet to exercise. Go the Grand Precincts and demand entry, as is your sole privilege.

  "The Grand Precincts are as deserted as any of the others. My men had no response from within. The High Brother has fled, no doubt, with the rest of his cronies. No food or other supplies have passed into the building for more than a year; there's nobody in there."

  The Grand Precinct is never deserted, Ullsaard. Have you gone yourself to the great door and demanded entry?

  "No, why would I? The knock of one man is the same as any other."

  You are not any other man, you are the king! You accept your responsibilities with furrowed brow and sagging shoulders, but make no use of the rights that you possess. Go to the Grand Precincts. I will guide you.

  The king considered this. There was no assurance that Askhos could be trusted; in fact, every reason to believe the opposite. Similarly, the Brotherhood was Askhos' tool, and had used every means they had to thwart Ullsaard's claim to the Crown. It was likely they would continue to resist his rule.

  Your are wrong, Askhos interrupted his thoughts. The Brotherhood opposed you because you were a usurper and, as Lutaar, I instructed them to. You still act like a usurper, not a rightful king. Reestablish the Brotherhood and command them as I did. Show the Brotherhood that you do not fear them, that you have every right to wear the Crown as any man that came before you. You think that the Brotherhood is inactive, simply because they do not carry out your bidding? Better to bring them back into the light of your gaze than leave them to foster their own plans in the shadows.

  This last comment struck a chord with Ullsaard. In Askhira, with the burning of Ullsaard's fleet, the Brotherhood had demonstrated their power to work unseen. Even now they could be manipulating the people of the empire. Somewhere, Erlaan and Kalmud were still alive, and no doubt there were those amongst the Brotherhood who would see the previous line restored. Askhos was right. If Ullsaard was to be treated as a king, he had to act like one.

  A bell chimed the second hour of Duskwatch. The thought of going to the Grand Precincts as darkness fell unsettled Ullsaard.

  "I will sleep on the decision," he said, though the laughter of Askhos in Ullsaard's mind revealed that the dead king knew his true reasons for delaying until the light of morning.

  III

  Only the drip of the water clock disturbed the silence within the mausoleum-like bowels of the Grand Precincts. Consisting of two bowls set one above the other, the clock sat on the table in the chamber of the High Brother.

  Lakhyri stared at the drops of water as they fell, his golden eyes following each from the top bowl to the second. It intrigued and irked him in equal measure, this passing of time, the slow wearing of mortality and entropy. In the Temple he was immortal; here in the world every passing drip was a passing moment of his life. It did not wear on him heavily, but was a slow erosion of his existence like the wind wearing down a mountaintop. The runes carved into his flesh itched, leeching life-giving power from the thousands of small creatures and insects that infested the deserted Grand Precincts, sustaining him with their tiny contributions of force.

  He dismissed thoughts of time and turned his mind to more pressing matters. Erlaan was installed as the new figurehead of the Mekhani. He was under instruction to begin a more concerted campaign against Okhar before the end of the year. The situation in Salphoria was confusing to the high priest. He could fathom no reason why Ullsaard had stalled his advance so swiftly. By Lakhyri's calculation, the king should have been smashing down the gates of Carantathi by the end of the summer.

  Lakhyri wondered if he had moved too soon. Had encouraging the Mekhani distracted Ullsaard from his campaign? It seemed unlikely. The raids had been carefully planned to add impetus to the king's war, not delay it. Ullsaard was meant to crush Salphoria swiftly so that he could return to deal with the Mekhani attacks. Instead, he had called a halt to his conquest and returned to Askh.

  Like many things of late, it perturbed Lakhyri that matters were progressing in ways he had not foreseen. Ullsaard was so unpredictable. Other men, even his brother Askhos, had been simple to manipulate; acting and reacting in ways that had been laid out in Lakhyri's mind like a map. This new king, he caused problems. He was an anomaly. He should never have been born. From that moment, things had started to go awry, even if the full extent of his deviation from the great plan of Lakhyri was not yet fully known.

  The high priest reined back his thoughts from such amorphous speculation. He had to focus. The dripping of the water clock rang loudly in his ears, reminding him that the eulanui were losing patience. He could not allow himself to be distracted by the longer consequences of what had gone wrong. The empire had to be complete. Ullsaard needed to conquer Salphoria. At the moment of Ullsaard's triumph, Erlaan would sweep hotwards with his Mekhani horde and take over Greater Askhor, thus uniting the new empire of Askh with the ancient realm of Mekha. As foretold, a single king would rule all of the lands between the seas.

  And when that happened…

  A gong echoed along the corridors. For a moment, Lakhyri thought that he was back in the Temple, hearing the call to prayer. The moment passed and as the gong sounded twice and thrice, he realised what was happening. The lingering pre
sence of Udaan stirred in a corner of the body Lakhyri had stolen from the High Brother and the meaning of the three gong notes became clear.

  The new king was paying a visit.

  He picked up the silver mask lying next to the water clock and pulled its straps over his head. Lifting up the hood of his robe, Lakhyri stood, mind abuzz with concerns at this development.

  With long strides, he navigated his way along the corridors and halls until he came to the large double doors of the Grand Precinct's main portal. Pulling a rope, he activated a series of counterweights. The doors ground inwards, sweeping two arcs through the dust that had settled on the stone floor.

  Morning light streamed inside, silhouetting a large man stood with legs braced apart, arms folded across a muscled chest. He was dressed in a simple tunic and kilt. Lakhyri noted with interest that he did not wear the Crown, and there was no sword at his waist.

 

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