The Crown of the Conqueror (12 page)

  Ullsaard pulled Blackfang to one side of the winding track, heading up a shallow rise, the high grass leaving a wet swathe in the ailur's fur. For eight days he had marched, almost directly duskwards, following the muddy road alongside the Annillan River. From the Altes hills the waterway plunged down into the plains and then veered lazily through the grasslands, almost half a mile wide in places. The only evidence of people had been the clusters of abandoned huts clinging to the muddy flats around the river; the Salphors had fled before the advance of the Askhans.

  Looking ahead, Ullsaard could see little through the gloom, but from his observations yesterday knew that there was a range of mountains somewhere to duskwards. How wide or high they were, he did not know, and whether they could be skirted to coldwards or hotwards remained a concern. From experience, he knew the Annillan would turn one way or the other as it reached the foothills, following the line of least resistance to the sea. Just how far that might be had been a subject of some debate in the camp for the past few days, with no clear decision. Much like the Greenwater campaign, this was a voyage into the unknown.

  Staring at the expanse of wilderness, Ullsaard wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Greater Askhor was vast, but it seemed that the loose conglomeration of lands and people the Askhans glibly called Salphoria might be almost as big.

  It had taken two hundred years for Greater Askhor to be created, and he was looking to conquer a similar territory within a season. He had once said he would conquer Salphoria in a single summer if he had two hundred and fifty thousand men. He had less than half that, and yet had pressed on regardless. It seemed ridiculous when he thought of it like that.

  His contemplation was broken by the approach of Anasind, accompanied by a leather-faced legionnaire. Ullsaard recognised the man as one of the ex-landship crew that had joined the Thirteenth for the attack on Magilnada. He had seen him again at the sacking of Askh, but for his life he couldn't remember the man's name.

  "What's this?" asked Ullsaard.

  "Someone who could be useful, king," said Anasind. "You wanted local knowledge. This is Gelthius, a Salphor in the Thirteenth."

  "Gelthius, that was it," said Ullsaard. He smiled at the legionnaire, who had the expression of a small animal suddenly coming face to face with a hungry lion. Ullsaard was not sure whether this was due to his presence, or Blackfang's. The soldier was certainly keeping as far from the ailur as he could without actually hiding behind Anasind. "Glad to see you're still with us, Gelthius."

  "So am I, right enough," said Gelthius. He glanced at Anasind before continuing. "I heard word that you was asking after people that might know these lands."

  Anasind coughed pointedly and glared at Gelthius.

  "King," the legionnaire quickly added with a bow of the head.

  "So, you know these parts, do you?"

  "Was born on the banks of this river, about three more days duskwards," said Gelthius. "Er, king. These are the lands of the Linghar."

  There was a catch to the man's voice, and a slightly wistful cast to his expression, tinged with apprehension.

  "You have family here?" the king asked.

  "They was here when I got taken as a debtor, king," Gelthius said with a shrug. "I dunno if they still is. That were seven years ago and some."

  Ullsaard regarded the legionnaire for some time, adding to Gelthius's discomfort. With a little nod to himself as he reached a decision, the king leaned over to the legionnaire and slapped a hand on his shoulder.

  "Don't look so worried," said Ullsaard. "Do you think your company could spare you for a while?"

  "Spare me?"

  "You're joining my staff, Gelthius! I need someone like you to help me out."

  "Me? Help you? I dunno about that, king. I don't know much."

  "Neither do I," said Ullsaard with a wink. "But around here, you probably know more than most of us."

  Gelthius looked uncertain, glancing at Anasind for guidance. The First Captain nodded encouragingly.

  "I'll have to make you a third captain," said Anasind. "If you're going to be on the king's staff, that is."

  The thought of the extra pay and privileges of rank seemed to ease Gelthius's concerns immediately and he smiled bashfully.

  "If I can be of help, king, then I'll do what I can." His smile faded and doubt returned. Gelthius looked Ullsaard with pleading in his eyes. "You're not going to burn and kill everything are you?"

  "Not unless I'm forced to," the king replied with a shrug. "Let's hope you can make your people see some sense."

 

Smoke drifted across the setting sun, the haze rising from nearly a hundred chimney holes and bonfires. Half-dug into the hillside, their turf roofs extending over stone walls, the houses of the Linghar were squat dwellings, with narrow doors and glassless, horizontal slit windows. There was no wall or palisade; the only obstacles were the animal pens fenced with woven reed taken from the river bank at the bottom of the long slope.

  It was not the homecoming Gelthius had dreamed of; nor the one he had expected.

  For this first time since becoming a legionnaire, he felt uncomfortable in his armour and uniform. Sat in the back of the abada cart, spear and shield stowed beside him, he was keenly aware of his tanned legs jutting from under his kilt, and the weight of his breastplate. He looked at the other three legionnaires in the wagon: Muuril, Gebriun and Loordin; Haeksin was up front steering the cart.

  "How are you feeling, boss?" said Muuril. "Good to be home?"

  Gelthius said nothing, still uncertain about his position with the others. They seemed to have taken his sudden promotion in their stride, but Gelthius was under no doubts that he was the least experienced of all the men. Muuril especially gave Gelthius problems; three days ago he had been Gelthius's sergeant, now it was Gelthius that was in charge. Muuril had been nothing but supportive, but Gelthius wondered whether the sergeant would really follow orders if it came down to it.

  They were watchmates above everything else, and Gelthius hoped that counted for something; which was why he had brought them with him on this mission. On First Captain Anasind's suggestion, he had picked the men he trusted most. Gelthius hoped they trusted him just as much.

  "Hey up, they've seen us," said Haeksin.

  Families were coming out of the houses, women and children sheltering behind their menfolk as they gathered on the road. There were spears and shields in the crowd, but as the cart rumbled to a stop a few dozen yards away, Gelthius sensed curiosity rather than anger.

  "Gear up," said Muuril, grabbing his spear.

  "Not yet," said Gelthius, laying a hand on the sergeant's wrist. Muuril's expression conveyed his doubts on this course of action, but he let go of his weapon.

  Gelthius hauled himself over the side of the cart, landing ankledeep in a puddle. Cursing his Askhan sandals, he trudged up the hill, mud spattering his naked legs. He raised a hand in greeting.

  "Is Naraghlin still in charge?" he called out. "Is he here?"

  There was no reply from the sullen tribesmen, who had now formed a solid line from one edge of the road to the other, between the two outermost houses. Gelthius looked along the row of bearded faces, recognising most, though unable to recall many names.

  He realised he had spoken in crude Askhan. He tried again with the Linghan tongue. The tribesmen exchanged looks and peered at Gelthius with renewed interest. One of them stopped forward, a young man not long out of his teens. Although much older than when he had last been here, Gelthius recognised him as Kalsaghan, Naraghlin's son.

  "Who's asking?" said the youth. He stood with feet braced apart, shield held up to his left, a short spear in his right hand. His face was clean shaven, but his hair hung in long braids to his chest, bound with leather thongs. Older men closed protectively around him, spears ready.

  "It's me, Gelthius." He pulled off his helmet so that they could better see his face. "Where's Naraghlin? I need to speak with him."

  "Look at you, all dressed up in your Askhan costume," said Kalsaghan. "With your shaved head and your bare face, you look like a child."

  "Rules," said Gelthius. "Come on, I need to speak with your father."

  "He has nothing to say to you." This was from a red-headed warrior standing to Kalsaghan's left; a bear of a man Gelthius knew to be the chieftain's younger brother, Mannuis. "Go away."

  "If I go away, the next time you see me, there'll be ten thousand Askhan arseholes with me," said Gelthius.

  This was greeted with laughter.

  "Really?" said Kalsaghan. "Ten thousand? They would be a long way from home if there were."

  Gelthius tucked his helmet under his arm and strode up the track, stopping just a few paces from the line of warriors.

  "It's true," he said. "Yes, they're a long way from home, and they're itching for a fight. Don't give them one. Stop playing around; tell me where I'll find Naraghlin. He's not gone to Carantathi with the others, has he?"

  "I'm here, Gelthius."

  The aging chieftain pushed his way through the crowd, wrapped in a thick cloak of a deep golden bear fur. He was about the same age as Gelthius, but his hair was a shock of white, his long beard the same. Bushy eyebrows stuck out from under the rim of his helmet and he used a staff for balance as he hobbled closer. There was suspicion in the chieftain's eyes.

  "What are you doing here, Gelthius?"

  "I come with a message from King Ullsaard of Greater Askhor," said Gelthius. He realised how grand that sounded as soon as he said it, and was not surprised to see several warriors curling their lips with derision. Naraghlin did not sneer. He simple nodded in a dejected way and waved for Gelthius to approach with a heavily veined hand.

  "Couldn't make the council of chieftains," Naraghlin admitted with a sigh. He regarded Gelthius with rheumy eyes. "Too damned old for the journey."

  "It's probably better that you didn't leave," said Gelthius. "It hasn't gone well for those tribes that had nobody to strike a deal with Ullsaard."

  "So I've heard. Tell your friends that they can enter. Have them take the cart up to– "

  The chieftain was interrupted by an astonished cry to Gelthius's left. A woman broke through the mass of warriors, greying hair fluttering as she ran across the road. She stopped short of Gelthius, staring at him with eyes wide in disbelief.

  "Maredin?" Gelthius stared back at his wife, taken aback by her sudden appearance.

  He had been so apprehensive about meeting Naraghlin, the thought of this reunion had been pushed from his mind; yet it had occupied his thoughts ever since the Thirteenth had marched duskwards from Magilnada at the start of the summer. Seeing her face, he had no idea what to say.

  "What do you look like, Gelthius?" she snapped. "Dressed up like one of them Askhans and all."

  Gelthius had to laugh. Ignoring her scowl, he threw his arms around Maredin and pulled her into a tight hug. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  "Never knew this day would come or not," he told her, burying his face in her hair, almost crushing her.

  Maredin wriggled out of his grasp and glared at him, hands on hips. Gelthius recognised her scolding stance and stepped back out of instinct, one hand raised protectively.

  "I suppose you'll be wanting something to eat, and a drink, no doubt," she said. "Is that right? Carted off by that debt warden, no word of explanation, and gone for more years than I can count. Now you're back, are you?"

  "Don't start," Gelthius warned. "I will tell you everything, but I have to talk with Naraghlin first. Please, my love, wait for me at the house."

  For a moment it looked like Maredin was going to argue. She contented herself with an angry huff and whirled away back into the amused crowd without saying another word.

  "Wives, eh?" said Naraghlin, leaning on his staff as if the weight of the world bore down on his thin shoulders. "Still, you miss them when they're gone, don't you?"

  Gelthius waved for the other legionnaires to drive the cart into the town. Muuril was the first to step down.

  "What's happening, captain?" the sergeant asked, eyes narrowed at the Salphors. "Are we good?"

  "Not sure yet," Gelthius replied in Askhan. "There's a lodging house up the next left fork in the road. Send the cart up there and tell the others to stay with it. I'm going to the chieftain's hall to speak with Naraghlin. Follow us."

  "Yes, captain," Muuril said, smartly rapping his fist against his breastplate in salute. This elicited more laughter from the Salphors. The sergeant snapped a few orders to the men in the cart and fell in beside Gelthius.

  The crowd parted as Naraghlin and Gelthius headed up the slope towards the summit, where the long hall of the elders stood. Two columns flanked the doorway, their tops carved in the likeness of a bear and a wolf. An embroidered banner hung between them, sodden with rain and tattered with age, depicting a youthful warrior facing a snarling wolf armed with nothing more than a knife. Beside the warrior reared a gigantic bear with a golden pelt. It was meant to be Naraghlin; an illustration of a remarkable feat of might from his childhood. Gelthius snorted, suppressing a laugh at seeing it.

  He remembered that day, in the woods coldwards along the river. The wolf had been almost dead from its fight with a bear. Naraghlin had just finished off the wounded animal. Nobody had actually seen the bear. The omen of being rescued by a bear was good one though, and the group had agreed to spin a story to the elders when they returned with its ravaged corpse.

  Gelthius hadn't known then that Naraghlin would later use the lie as proof that the spirit of the woods had blessed him; and killed the old chieftain to take his place as ruler of the Linghar. Gelthius had made the mistake of speaking out against this murder and had been left beaten close to death by Naraghlin's henchmen; he was warned never to speak the truth about what had happened in the woods that day, on pain of death.