The Crown of the Conqueror (53 page)

  With everything ordered as he wished, Ullsaard drank a little wine, ate some lunch and took a nap. At the ring of High Watch, he woke up, realising that he had slept longer than he had planned. He looked at the piles of documents and wax tablets and sighed. Filling another goblet of watered wine, he left the pavilion in search of some distraction.

  Just as he stepped out into the camp, a great cheer was raised to his left. The gate towers were crowded with legionnaires, some of them pointing at Magilnada. Ullsaard hurried across the camp and pulled himself up the ladder of the right tower. Pushing to the front, there were a few grumbles from the soldiers until they realised their king had joined them. One hand on the parapet, the other raising the goblet to his lips, Ullsaard saw what provided so much entertainment.

  The battery of catapults had been moved into range and commenced their bombardment. This initial barrage consisted of bronze globes filled with lava. As one, the engines launched their ammunition, the fire bombs arcing over the walls to explode onto the buildings within. Smoke was rising from several fires already; towards the dawnwards wall the flames of a growing inferno flickered above the curtain wall.

  "When do we get to go in, king?" asked a leather-faced sergeant to Ullsaard's left.

  "Three days," he replied, "unless something comes up sooner."

  "Three days of this and there'll be nobody left to fight," the sergeant said with a hint of complaint.

  "That's the idea," replied Ullsaard. "But I wouldn't be so sure about that."

  He pointed to the city wall, where distant figures could be seen gathering opposite the engine battery. On the towers, trebuchets continued their counter-bombardment, launching rocks into the midst of the Askhan machines. The shattered bodies of men were hurled through the air by a direct hit, the catapult flying apart into a shower of timbers and rope. The soldiers in the gate tower groaned at the setback.

  A horn sounded somewhere to the left, the warning note taken up by other musicians in the legion. Ullsaard's eyes immediately went to the gates, which were opening to release a stream of men. The Magilnadan warriors advanced towards the closest engines, their intent obvious.

  Guard companies from the legion mobilised quickly, departing their camp to intercept the raiders. Such was the speed of the Magilnadan attack, they were upon the closest catapult while the Askhan reinforcements were still several hundred paces away. Fighting erupted along the revetment and the Magilnadans broke through in places, hacking at the ropes of the war machine and smashing canisters of oil. As the legionnaires closed in on them, the raiders set a fire in the fortification and scrambled away. They dashed back towards the gate, the more heavily armoured Askhans unable to catch them.

  With the Magilnadans no more than a hundred paces from safety, a squadron of kolubrids closed quickly, unleashing a storm of bellows bolts. The running men were defenceless against the torrent and several dozen fell before a cloud of shafts lifted up from the walls and descended upon the Askhan cavalry. Driven back, the kolubrids turned away and the raiders escaped into the city.

  "We should have some companies watching the gate," said a legionnaire behind Ullsaard. "They've got too much time for this sort of thing."

  "Do you want to stand out there in range of their engines, just waiting for them to come out?" another replied. "Not me, for sure."

  There were murmurs of agreement and muted laughs.

  "When there're enough fires burning, we'll sort out the towers and the catapults," Ullsaard told his men. "It's just a matter of being patient. Unless you want to have a go now?"

  Nervous denials greeted the offer and Ullsaard grinned.

  "What if I said I was going to be first in?" the king suggested. "Would you follow me?"

  This time the legionnaires were more enthusiastic, though there were several who did not seem to relish the prospect of the forthcoming assault. Ullsaard smiled, patted a few shoulders in encouragement and clambered down from the tower.

  A second captain awaited the king when he reached the ground.

  "First Captain Aalmunis requests that you see him in his pavilion, king," said the officer. "Scouts have arrived from hotwards."

  "Thank you," Ullsaard said with a nod.

  He followed the captain through the camp to Aalmunis's tent. The guard outside stood to attention and presented their spears at his approach. With a nod to return the salute, Ullsaard stepped inside.

  Aalmunis had several maps spread out on the rugs. Three men in leathers stood with him, one of them pointing at something on a map of the border between Ersua and Free Country. All looked up as Ullsaard entered.

  "News?" said the king.

  "The Magilnadan legions have left their stations on the border," said Aalmunis. He crouched and drew a finger along a serpentine line of blue paint. "They're moving along the Neegha River."

  Ullsaard studied the map. The traitors' route took them to duskwards, at least fifty miles behind the siege lines. If they meant to lift the siege, there were much easier roads to take.

  "They're trying to get away," said Ullsaard.

  "That was my conclusion," said Aalmunis. "We can't spare enough men to block their retreat, unless you want to forego an assault and starve out the Magilnadans."

  Scratching at his beard, Ullsaard sifted through the maps until he found one on which were marked the camps of the legions further to duskwards. He made a quick assessment of the situation and who was best positioned to act.

  "Send messages to the Eleventh, Fourteenth and Nineteenth," he said. Aalmunis took up a wax slate and stylus from a table and started making notations. "They'll have to move quickly. Have them break camp and march to Eaghrus and Lennina. They should be able to catch the Magilnadans as they try to cross the bridges."

  "What if they turn further coldwards, through these forests here?" asked one of the scouts, pointing to a huge swathe of green that spread into the foothills of the Ersuan Mountains.

  "We'll have to let them get away," Ullsaard replied with a sigh. "If that end of the line is moved further coldwards, the legions will be too isolated and vulnerable to a Salphor attack."

  "I'll have orders written up by the next bells," Aalmunis told the scouts. "Get yourselves something to eat and fresh mounts, you'll be leaving as soon as possible."

  The scouts acknowledged their orders with quick bows and left. Ullsaard fixed Aalmunis with a stare.

  "I want those Magilnadan scum slaughtered to a man," said the king. "Those legions killed my son, a prince of the Blood. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, king," said Aalmunis. "We'll make sure those treacherous bastards wish they'd never crawled out of the bitches that spawned them."

 

Smoke hung over the city in a thick pall, coating every surface with soot. Blackened bodies lay sprawled in fuming ruins, and the streets were choked with the crushed and bloodied. At first the people had tried to move the bodies into the lower city, but now there were just too many and everybody was too tired.

  Groups of people wandered the streets with vacant looks, some of them clutching children whose grimy faces were streaked with lines of tears. Others sat in the rubble and wept, or simply stood unmoving at street corners while the desperate and the traumatised shuffled past.

  The gate towers had fallen shortly after the bombardment had recommenced at dawn. The parapet of the wall was like a row of broken teeth, and in places the wall itself was crumbling, slopes of stone tumbled into the streets behind.

  Anglhan picked his way through the destruction, swathed in a hooded cloak, a handcart dragged behind carrying a small chest of coins and gems. His head throbbed from lack of sleep; for the whole of the previous night the Askhans had beaten drums, a slow, terrifying tempo that presaged the assault to come. For just three days they had battered Magilnada, but in three days they had brought Anglhan's city to ruins.

  He was numb, in mind and body. He saw the remains of a mother and two children buried under a pile of bricks, their bodies crushed by the collapsed building, and it meant nothing to the lord of Magilnada. Blood stained the flagstones underfoot and he stumbled through ruddy-tinged puddles. Dust filled the air, coating his clothes, choking eyes, ears and mouth.

  The handcart jarred against something, bringing Anglhan to a stop. He looked back dumbly and saw that a severed arm had become trapped in the spokes of a wheel. Disgust, despair, anger had all run their course, and now Anglhan bent down, tossed aside the offending object and carried on without a second thought.

  A boulder smashed through the roof of a house ahead, sending up shards of tiles and a cloud of plaster dust. Anglhan did not flinch. He barely heard the shriek of a man who came stumbling out of the damaged building, a splinter the size of a sword jutting from his shoulder. He made a grab for Anglhan, eyes pleading, but the ruler of the devastated city swiped away the man's hand and pushed him back.

  He had to get out.

  The city was surrounded. As far as Anglhan knew, nobody had escaped the ring of Askhans. Until that morning, he had harboured the hope that he would be able to slip away in the confusion and carnage of the final assault. That hope had been dashed the moment he realised the Askhans planned to kill everyone in the city. It would not matter if he could disguise himself in a flood of refugees, he would be cut down all the same.

  So it was that he followed the last-ditch plan he had concocted more than a year ago, when he had first considered crowning himself ruler of the Free Country. He did not do so with hope of expectation, or even desperation. He walked through the city simply because the alternative was to wait in the palace to die. He was not a fighter, and he was sure that Ullsaard would give orders to ensure he was captured alive. Anglhan bore no illusions about the fate being taken prisoner would bring. Torture and an agonising death would be his only future.

  He came upon Spring Road, where the wells that served the city were found, fed by underground rivers from the Altes Hills. There was a large crowd of people, scrabbling with one another to get fresh water. People wanted to drink; none gave thought to the dozens of fires that still burned in the city.

  Anglhan was not interested in the fresh springs. It was pointless to stave off death by thirst just to wait for a legionnaire's spear. He moved around the crowd, avoiding the gazes of the desperate citizens, and made his way over a shallow pile of debris into a half-ruined wooden hall.

  Inside stank of shit and piss, for this was the wastehouse of the upper city. Separate from the river and pools that brought the city drinking water, another foaming rivulet cascaded down into the plains, accessed by three deep brick-lined holes. In normal times, the nightmen and pissboys would collect the waste of the nobles and flush it away down the open sewer; the common folk brought their own filth to dispose. Nobody knew where the stream went – Shit River as it was known – and until now nobody had cared.

  Anglhan pulled a scarf from his belt and wrapped it over his mouth and nose; it did little to ward away the stench, but at least he would not get sprays of effluent in his mouth. He lifted the small chest from the cart and set it onto the lip of the closest sewer well. From the cart he brought forth a length of rope and tied it about his chest in the manner of a topman on his old landship. A memory flickered through his dulled mind, of teaching the same knot to a rebel chieftain.

  Searching for something secure to tie the other end of the rope to, he spied a fallen beam from the broken roof. Tying the rope with nimble hands, he tested the knot and shuffled back to his chest. He passed the rope through a metal ring on one end and secured the chest to his belt. It weighed heavily at the moment, but it was only half-full, the rest of the space taken up by an inflated bladder that would keep the chest afloat once he was in the waterway.

  Without any hesitation, no thoughts of what he had lost or the misery he had brought upon the thousands of people he had ruled, Anglhan flicked the rope over the wall of the well and heaved himself up to the lip. Inside, the bricks were coated with an uneven layer of dried waste, looking much like brown and black ice. The smell hit him with renewed strength as he swung his legs into the opening and dangled at the edge.

  Working the rope through the special knot at his waist, Anglhan lowered himself towards the foaming water far below. In small drops, feet braced against the wall, the former lord of Magilnada left his city, face red with effort, the scarf across his face wet with his panting breath and sweat.

  His foot slipped and for a moment he swung from side to side, toes scraping at the accreted shit for purchase. He eventually came to a stop and started down again. His feet were almost in the torrent when he noticed something different. He listened and could not place what he heard; then realised that it was quiet.

  The Askhan drums had stopped. The assault was about to begin.

  With a last effort, he slipped the knot free and dropped into the water. Foam bubbled around him as the current grabbed his legs and swept him away. His sodden clothes dragged at him and he clawed at the surface of the river. He snatched away the scarf and arched his neck to gasp for air, the small chest of money bobbing along beside him.

  Only now did he feel something. Freedom. He laughed and spluttered, imagining Ullsaard's rage when he discovered Anglhan had escaped.

  "Fuck Ullsaard!" Anglhan shouted, barely hearing his own voice over the rush of the river.

  A moment later he was dashed against an outcrop of rock, his head cracking against stone, knocking him out.