The Crown of the Usurper (50 page)

  Lutaan risked a glance up at the king, but Urikh had yet to acknowledge his general's presence. The empire's ruler wore the Crown on his head and black robes threaded with precious metals. His hair had been bleached white – or so Lutaan thought, though he had heard whispers that terror had paled the king's hair on the first night of the shadow-creatures' arrival. The king was speaking with the golden-eyed husk of a man that led the Brotherhood. Urikh's mania was disturbing to witness, but Lakhyri's presence brought hushed dread wherever he appeared, always accompanied by at least one of the shadow-monsters. There was one of the things with them now, a tentacled blot in the gloom, stretched between the two icon poles at the back of the palanquin. Clusters of diamond-like orbs met the general's gaze and he quickly lowered his head.

  In no hurry to pass on the news he had, Lutaan waited for the king's word, his eyes averted. At least the day had been quiet. Oorandia had been almost deserted, except for a few old folk and cripples unable to flee, abandoned by their families as the darkness had descended upon the city. Those that had fled had been wise; every town the army had passed through had become a feast for the shadow-things. Lutaan had suffered the experience of seeing one of the creatures devouring a family, rendering them down to nought with lashing, tongue-like appendages.

  "You may address me, general." Urikh's sudden voice made Lutaan flinch.

  "The city has been abandoned, majestic king." The honorific almost stuck in the general's throat, but he forced out the words, having seen the flayed remains of those punished for improperly addressing the king. "There is no sign of Ullsaard."

  "The coward runs from me again," declared Urikh. Lutaan glanced up for a heartbeat, to judge the king's expression. Urikh was most definitely displeased. "He spits in my face and then turns tail like a flea-ridden dog. He tries to turn my people against me, and slays the Brothers that spread the word of my rule, but is not brave enough to face me himself. "

  Lutaan knew well it was not the king that Ullsaard did not wish to face. Urikh had never been physically imposing and was now an emaciated, haggard figure who suffered trembling limbs like a man three times his age.

  "There was a parchment left in the city, nailed to the charred timbers of a large pyre, my great king." Lutaan did not want to continue, but he knew Urikh would insist on knowing the details and so carried on despite his instinct to stay quiet. It was better not to have the king ask questions if it could be avoided. "We found fragments of black cloth in the ashes. I think they burned the Brothers. It is part of the message."

  "A message?" Urikh spoke lightly, affecting only passing interest.

  "A letter, magnificent ruler," said Lutaan. He took the roll from his belt and held it up, not looking at the king.

  "Read it to me."

  This had been the moment that Lutaan had been dreading. He had already seen the contents of the letter and had hoped he would have been able to pass it to the king and then excuse himself. He had also considered giving it to one of the other captains to present, but shame at the notion had forced the general to do the deed himself. He risked a moment of softlyspoken dissent.

  "It would be better if you read it yourself, mighty ruler of Askh. I would not trust my poor intonation to convey its proper meaning."

  "Read it." The words were said quietly, but there was harshness behind them. Lutaan heard scraping, of something slithering across the wood of the palanquin, and he felt the air turning hotter. He dared not look up, but could feel the air around him saturated with the presence of the shadow-thing. With shaking hands he unrolled the parchment. Clearing his throat, he started to read.

  "To my worthless cunt of a son." Lutaan stopped, expecting to feel the touch of a shadow-limb on him or the hiss that Urikh gave when displeased, but instead there was laughter from the king; laughter edged with madness.

  "My father has an eloquence that puts the playwrights to shame," said the king. The humour in his voiced died away. "I shall remember such greeting when I see him next. Continue."

  "I regret the day my seed spilled into your mother." Lutaan forced himself to concentrate on the written words, trying to rid his voice of emotion or emphasis. He was only the conduit for Ullsaard's insults, not the source, he told himself, but it was hard to focus. "I wish I had fucked her in the arse instead that night. You have been nothing but a disappointment to me. Ullnaar is more intelligent than you and Jutaar was loyal. There is nothing in you worth compliment. I am not surprised that you cannot even fight your own battles, but have become Lakhyri's piss boy. I am heading hotwards to where this all started. Bring all of the soldiers and all of the otherworld creatures you can, because you are going to need them. You had a chance to end this and keep your life. I gave you that because you were my son, but I do not accept you as my son any longer. You are as filthy as a cheap whore's gash and I would wash away the stench with your blood."

  Urikh was panting hard, the wood of his throne creaking as he rocked back and forth.

  "His words are meant as barbs, to cloud your thinking," snapped Lakhyri.

  "Fucking shit-eating mongrel bastard, I will see him die a lingering death, a painful death that will last for a long time." Urikh continued to rave, spilling insults and expletives in a steady stream.

  "General, you are dismissed," said Lakhyri.

  "What are my orders?" Lutaan asked as he pushed himself to his feet, eyes still on the ground. He dropped the parchment and stepped back, wanting to vomit. He grasped one hand in the other to stop the trembling as he felt the sinuous movement of the shadow-monster just a few paces in front of him. Another wash of hot air felt like tiny claws on the general's skin. "Are we to march?"

  "We are going to fucking march, oh yes!" shouted Urikh. "We will fucking march day and night. Ullsaard is a fucking idiot if he wants to fight me. I will show him where the true power in the empire lies now!"

  "As you command, noble king, it shall be," said Lutaan. He turned and marched away as quickly as he could, while the king's anger was focussed on Ullsaard. He was met by the other first captains a short distance away.

  "How did he take it?" asked Neerdrin, commander of the First.

  "If we don't bring that madman Ullsaard's head, we're all dead men, or worse," Lutaan whispered. He pushed past the other officers, desperate for the sanctuary of his pavilion. "Assemble the companies. We march hotwards, to Mekha."

 

There had been many times when an army on the march had been the greatest thing Ullsaard could imagine. He stood with Anasind and the first captains on a hill overlooking the army as it passed by. Company after company stretched back along the rough track that ran alongside the sluggish river, the column winding its way through the scrub and dirt of near-Mekha. The gleam of the icons, the tramp of feet in unison and the jingle of wargear used to set the king's heart racing, especially when there was sure to be a battle at the end of the march. Hundreds of Kolubrid riders slithered through the sparse grassland to either side while abada hauled a train of thirty lava throwers and dozens of other war engines. Eight legions followed him and it was a force to be reckoned with, a physical representation of power that was unmatched by anything else.

  He had once confided in Noran that the thought of politics daunted him, but after years of turmoil and fighting he understood that politics was a very simple thing. Men had ambitions, dreams to achieve, and politics was simply the interplay of these desires, shaped by the power wielded by those involved. Some men had wealth to shower bribes and gifts to supporters, and to pay off their enemies and the vanquished. Some men had a knack for words, working on the desires and prejudices of others to suit their own ends.

  Ullsaard had an army.

  Wealth could buy loyalty, and influence could sway the minds of the masses, but when everything was rendered down to its basic level, only a fool argued against forty thousand spears.

  Armies had marched and conquered at Ullsaard's command for more than a decade, but this time he felt different. This was not a battle to seize the Crown from an ailing dynasty. This was not a conquest to enrich the coffers of the empire and bring barbarian foes under the civilising heel of Askh. This was a war of survival. The empire had been a sham, created solely to make men biddable to the wishes of Lakhyri; a pen for lambs to wait placidly in for their slaughter. The creatures that the priest had brought forth were not rulers, they were predators. They would devour the empire, and every man, woman and child within it.

  Ullsaard was not certain he could stop them. He had forty thousand men, but were bronze spears and blades enough to halt the shadowy horde Lakhyri had summoned? The king did not expect it to be enough, not against such an enemy, but he did not share his doubts with his officers. Ullsaard's reputation of never being on the losing side was worth more than promised pensions to the warriors of the army. They believed in him, and in his ability to deliver them victory. It was a belief that somehow was proving stronger than the fear of the unnatural enemy.

  It was a belief that could be shattered at any moment, if Ullsaard showed the slightest sign of weakness. The moment he allowed a crack to show in his confident demeanour the strength of his army would be lost and they would slip away into the wilds.

  So it was that he stood on the hill with his captains, raising sword in salute to the legions that marched below him, and inside his guts writhed and his thoughts were filled with visions of disaster.

  The Thirteenth reached the stretch of track beneath him and raucous cheering rolled up the slope to greet the king. The sight of them, with Muuril marching alongside the icon of Askh – a device that meant so much more than the praise of a dead king – stirred Ullsaard from his grim mood. He raised his shield and sword above his head and let out a bellow from the bottom of his lungs.

  "Thirteen!"

  "Thirteen!" The replying call sounded across the low hills, along with the crash of spears beating on shields. Ullsaard laughed, dismissing the fears that had clouded his thoughts since retreating from Oorandia. With men like this to fight beside him he might lose, but he would not die meekly.

  "My King, troubling news." Anasind's words punctured Ullsaard's moment of joy. "Scouts have reported a force of Mekhani moving towards us from duskwards. We need to break from the march and be ready for attack."

  "Not yet," replied Ullsaard, turning away from the spectacle below. He pointed coldwards, where a smear of dark cloud could be seen over the horizon; a storm that had followed them all of the way from Oorandia, gaining on them every night. "We have perhaps three days advantage left to us. I have a battleground in mind that will be to our advantage, but it will be a close-run race."

  "If the Mekhani fall on us while in column…" Anasind did not have to explain the consequences. Ullsaard's look reminded the general that he was well aware of the dangers. "As you command," said Anasind. "We will double the patrols to duskwards to warn of the Mekhani movements."

  "How far away did the scouts say this army was?"

  "A day and a half, from our current position. They are ahead of us though, so we will contact them this time tomorrow if we continue the march."

  "I best set out now then," said Ullsaard. Anasind knew the king well enough to stifle a protest. "It is not coincidence that those red savages are coming. I think I know the reason why."

  "Do I need to organise a guard?" Anasind was half-turning towards the other captains.

  "No, this time I'll go alone. No point putting more men at risk."

  "Risk?" Anasind took in a sharp breath. "You admit there is a risk and still expect me to let you go?"

  "You mother me more than Cosuas did," replied Ullsaard. "It is not your choice."

  The general made no further complaint while Ullsaard reeled off a series of orders to his captains for the encampment that night. He told them to continue directly hotwards the next day, and he would catch up with them on the march. Ignoring their unasked questions, the king put some water and food in a bag and set off down the hill, heading hotwards and duskwards, towards the Mekhani, fording the river a little while later.

  He walked for some time, wondering if he was doing the right thing. If the Mekhani captured or killed him, he realised guiltily that he had not said goodbye to Allenya. He never considered the possibility that he would not see her again. Not in all the years they had been married had he ever doubted he would survive to know her embrace at least one more time. Today was no different, and the king decided it was better that he had left without warning. He had been so busy with the ordering of the march and other preparations he had only seen her one day out of every three since leaving Oorandia. With luck she might not even learn that he had gone.

  He continued until nightfall, covering more than twenty miles. The hills were flattening into the desert, the vegetation became thinner and thinner with every mile passed. The skies were clear overhead and the stars bright, the half moon seeming almost within reach, away from the lanterns of city and camp.

  In the distance he saw a glow of red and a column of smoke drifting across the stars. The fire had been lit on top of a hill, easy to see from miles around. Far from being alarmed, this increased Ullsaard's confidence. He was sure that the fire would be a signal for him, though part of him warned that it could also be the bait for a trap. Either way, there was only one way to find out.

  It did not take him long to reach the fire, the flames of which reached high into the air; an obvious beacon. From the foot of the hill he could see a figure silhouetted against the flames, a figure far larger than any ordinary man.