The Crown of the Conqueror (32 page)

 

As the shamans disappeared into the night, Erlaan breathed a sigh of relief. The sense of adulation, the roar of so many hearts, the stink of their sweat had been almost overwhelming. Even now he could hear the slap of sandaled feet and the shamans' gushing whispers to each other.

  Eriekh signalled for him to follow and mounted the steps up the face of the ziggurat, Asirkhyr just behind. Erlaan followed slowly, his long stride taking the time-worn steps four at a time. He marvelled at his improved body, enjoying the grace and power with which it moved; so different from the gangly pubescent form he had left behind. He remembered admiring the athleticism of men like Ullsaard and chuckled to himself. It would be others that longed to have what he now possessed.

  "Everything Lakhyri promised was true," said Erlaan. "They were hanging on my every word, not a question of doubt in their eyes."

  "We have made you Orlassai reborn," said Eriekh.

  "Who was he? Was that true, what you said about an ancient Mekhani civilisation that was greater than Askhor?"

  "It is true, Great King," said Asirkhyr. The use of that title sent an almost sexual thrill through Erlaan. "Many times have we raised up the savage tribes of men to be the masters of the world."

  "And what happened to the Mekhani? Why have I never heard of this?"

  "They failed," Eriekh replied. Both of the old priests were panting hard from their exertions, their haggard breaths like the rasp of saws in Erlaan's ears. "The history of them all – Askhan, Mekhani, Erdutian, Connamite and many others – is kept in the Archive of Ages at the Grand Precincts."

  "I would have learnt all of this when I became king of Askh?"

  The two men exchanged a glance with a meaning Erlaan could not read.

  "The king of Askh is privy to all of these secrets," said Eriekh.

  "You said that they had failed," Erlaan continued. "Failed at what? Is that why you've done this, because Askhor has failed as well?"

  Again there was that knowing exchange of looks, mixed with a hint of impatience at Erlaan's questions. Eriekh gave Asirkhyr a subtle nod of approval.

  "Our masters, the eulanui, once ruled this world," said Asirkhyr, his breathing so laboured now that Erlaan thought the hierophant might collapse. "They… lost their grip on this realm. Since that time, many thousands of years ago, we have endeavoured to bring about their return. When we are successful, it is better that there is an empire ready for the masters to rule, for should they need to create one for themselves, it would not go well for our kind."

  "Our kind? The eulanui's sect?"

  "Mankind," Asirkhyr said quietly.

  "And before you ask about it, let me tell you of the city," Eriekh said with a wheezing sigh. "We have not created it from thin air. It has always been here, since it was first built. When the Mekhani's enemies ravaged their empire and the grasslands had become desert, Lakhyri chose to save the city rather than see it swallowed by the sands or razed by barbarians. We moved it to a safer place."

  "A place that is here, but cannot be visited by normal men," said Erlaan.

  Eriekh glanced back, pleasantly surprised.

  "Yes, something like that."

  "And the Temple…" Erlaan thought aloud. "That is here as well, and in the Grand Precincts, and I suppose many other places that are one step aside from the world I knew."

  Eriekh actually smiled at this.

  "Your understanding is correct, Great King," said the priest.

  "I do not understand much," confessed Erlaan. "But these eyes you have given me, they let me see things… differently. There are spaces within spaces, coiled up tight within the grains of sand, like a whole city hidden in the crack of a brick. The world normal men see is a vast empty space to the eulanui, and it is in these vast gaps that they dwell."

  They had reached the summit of the ziggurat. Eriekh waved a hand towards the golden throne, whose back was shaped like a great bird of prey with wings spread wide. Erlaan ran his hand over the smooth red cushion of the seat, feeling every tiny fibre on his fingertips. He turned and sat down to gaze across the vast city in the desert. It was larger than Askh, radiating out to duskwards in a semi-circle of boulevards. He could see splashes of green where parks broke the procession of white domes and coloured roof tiles.

  "And I am to found a new empire from here?" he asked. "I am to wage war against the city of my birth?"

  "You are to wage war against Ullsaard, who has stolen from you that which you were born to possess," said Asirkhyr. "You will take back what is yours, Great King, mighty Orlassai."

  Erlaan gripped the arms of the throne with his strange hands and turned his gaze to coldwards, picturing the mountains of Askhor and the city of his birth. He had wondered so many times if he had been fit to rule; wept into his pillow at the fear of his weakness. The Blood had proved its strength, with the aid of Lakhyri.

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

 

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.

 

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 whined 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.