The Crown of the Usurper (24 page)

  "Wriggly little bastard, aren't ya?" laughed one of the soldiers as Noran's arms were grabbed and he was half-led and half-dragged away from the gate.

  Noran stumbled a few steps, trying to make himself as much of a deadweight as possible. When this did not work, he dug his heels into the soft earth as best he could, but was heaved on regardless. They were coming to the end of the wall and would be turning around the corner to the road in moments. Noran had no time left, he had to act now.

  Lifting a foot, he kicked the legionnaire to his right in the back of the knee as the man took a step, sending him sprawling face first into the mud. Dragged down by his fall, Noran twisted to land on his shoulder. The other soldier who had been holding him had to release his grip to stop himself being pulled down. In the moment this afforded Noran, he managed to get his feet under himself and push up, launching himself to the left, crashing through the vine fence to plunge sidelong down onto the next terrace.

  Getting to his feet again, he ran as fast as he could along the row of winter-dead vines as the soldiers burst down onto the path behind him. They did not shout, but pounded after him, slowed by their spears and shields while Noran's tied hands prevented him running freely. Already panting hard from exertion and fear, Noran hurled himself down to the next tier of the terrace, landing awkwardly. Pain flared through his ankle as he pressed on, and within a few strides he was limping heavily.

  His ankle gave way completely a dozen paces later and sent him sprawling into the dirt once more. Gritting his teeth, Noran rolled around, trying to get back up again. Rough hands grabbed his arms and tunic, pinning him to the ground.

  The soldier who had first spoken to him stood over Noran, spear held ready.

  "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," said the legionnaire. A heartbeat later he smashed the end of his spear into Noran's temple.

 

A dull throbbing and a sharper pain around his ear signalled to Noran that he had regained consciousness. The first thing he did was to flex his arms, and to his surprise found that he was not tied. His legs were free too, and from the crunch of wheels, the rocking of something hard beneath him and the stink of abada dung, Noran guessed his was on the back of a wagon.

  Opening his eyes as he sat up, the noble confirmed his assessment. He couldn't have been out cold for long, the rooftops of his villa were still visible in the distance as he trundled down the hill towards Geria.

  Immediately behind the wagon trooped Noran's servants, each of them showing cuts and bruises. He counted only eight, meaning that two were missing, Artiides amongst them. Each man had his hands bound in front of him and there was a detachment of legionnaires behind them with spears lowered. The retainers looked up as Noran righted himself.

  "Where's Artiides, and Kapul?" asked the noble.

  Faaduan, who was closest of the men, shook his head and said nothing. Glancing over his shoulder, Noran saw that he was on the only cart in the column, two legionnaires on the board at the front. More soldiers marched to either side of him, and he remembered the face of the man walking just beside the abada.

  "Captain Juutan?" he called out, and the man turned at the sound of his name. Falling back, the captain looked at his charge, examining him from head to foot.

  "Sorry about that bash on the head there, but you should've just come quietly," said Juutan.

  Noran lifted a hand to the bruise on the side of his head, nodding slowly.

  "It is an instinct, highly honed, you see," he explained. "I have learned to my constant regret that I do not mix well in the company of armed men. You seem like a civilised man though, captain; diligent and attentive, no doubt. Please, speak with me for a moment."

  Juutan hauled himself over the side of the cart and sat down on the bare boards next to Noran, his scabbard across his lap, shield propped against the side. As Juutan adjusted his breastplate, Noran was able to study him for a few moments, running an experienced eye over the man's dress and features. Seeing the man more closely, Noran realised he was older than he had first thought, crow's feet marking the corners of his eyes and his forehead lined under the rim of his helmet. Given his age, Juutan was very likely a career soldier, sworn into the legions until death; a younger man might still be in his ten year tenure. There was also a certain cast to his skin and hook of the nose that suggested Okharan-born, and on the balance of probability from Geria itself. That made him a bit of an oddity; most Gerians whether common or noble were brought up with the Greenwater in their blood, not service to the legions.

  "What's the point of being captain if you cannot ride while your men walk?" Noran said airily.

  "I like marching with my men," replied Juutan. "I do not think of myself as better than them because of my rank."

  And the captain's words confirmed what Noran had suspected: Juutan was a commoner who had made his way up through the ranks. That made Juutan both dedicated and poor, because the camp costs of an officer, especially one of a garri son legion in a provincial capital, would soak up almost all of his wages.

  "You know," Noran began, leaning closer, "my family have considerable estates across the whole empire."

  "I've heard of the Astaans," replied Juutan, with a hint of reproach. "There's some say your father has more money in his vaults than there is in the Okharan treasury."

  Noran smiled, taking this comment as a hint that Juutan was aware of Noran's wealth. The nobleman folded his hands in his lap as he swayed from side to side in time with the cart's motion.

  "If you and your men were to return me to my villa, I could help you conduct a thorough search of the premises," Noran suggested. He kept his voice low; Juutan might be one of those officers who would take a bribe for himself but not if it was known by his men.

  "My orders contained no mention of a search," said Juutan with a shrug. "It is just my job to get you to the wharfs. There's a ship waiting to take you up the river."

  "I am not certain such a journey would be agreeable at this time of the year," said Noran, hiding his surprise at the captain's naiveté. "Winter is coming and travelling to coldwards will bear heavily on my constitution, which has been taxed in recent times."

  "That is not my concern," said Juutan.

  Noran bit his lip, unsure whether Juutan was being stupid or coy. He decided it must be the latter; nobody was that callow.

  "While I am sure that King Urikh is a fine fellow, I really have no desire to travel to Askh at this time," Noran continued, convinced his persistence would pay off. "I could happily pay you to convey my regards to the king."

  "That's not my orders."

  "All right, I understand, but you have to play fair," said Noran, his voice dropping to a whisper. "How much will it cost me?"

  "It won't cost you anything, the king is paying for the ship's commission," said Juutan.

  "For the love of… How much will it cost me not to be put on that ship?"

  Sitting back, his face showing conflict between surprise and disappointment, Juutan shook his head.

  "Not for all the money of the Astaans," exclaimed the captain. "My honour is more important than your wealth. If I let you escape I would never live it down. First Captain Harrakil picked me personally for this."

  "I bet he did," Noran mumbled, "I just bet he did."

 

With shovels over their shoulders, the line of prisoners marched down the road with sullen expressions, two dozen armed legionnaires of the Brotherhood to escort them. They reached the snow drifts that marked where the previous days' labours had ended, and without any order needed to be given, they set to, digging through the snow to open the road to the Ersuan capital.

  There were seventy men in all – not all of them legion convicts. Thirty-two were the former soldiers of the Thirteenth, seven others disgraced members of the Twenty-first, with the rest being made up of general thieves, vagabonds and, most heinous of all in the eyes of the Brotherhood, tax dodgers.

  Some dug away at the snow, while others hauled it into the fields on handcarts. It was back-breaking work, even for men hardened to a life in the legions, clearing mile after mile of roads to keep the arteries of the empire clear for commerce.

  "Leastways we're not up in Enair," said one of the men from the Twenty-first, Linnir, whose facial hair hid his mouth, the dark brown of his straggly beard and hair streaked with grey. None of the prisoners were allowed a blade of any kind, so all sported hair growth depending on the amount of time they had been in the punishment company.

  "I don't think they even bother clearing the snow up there," said Loordin, plunging his shovel into the snow. He lifted it out and turned the white pile onto the handcart in front of Muuril. The King's Companion, face obscured by a ragged fringe and a great bush of a black beard, grunted but said nothing.

  "He doesn't talk much, your friend, does he?" said Linnir.

  A group of prisoners trudged past them, moving further along the road. They clambered up a bank of snow that had piled up against a compound wall, almost as tall as a man. Tools were passed up to them and they started to dig into the white mass.

  "He hasn't got much to talk about," said Gelthius. Dressed in fur-lined boots and woollen clothes, the former legionnaire was not cold, despite the wind and the snow. His heavy gloves made handling the handle of the shovel difficult though, and he dropped as much snow as he managed to load onto Muuril's handcart.

  What Linnir said was true, though. Muuril had barely spoken half a dozen words since they had been told to surrender by Ullsaard. It had been a hard blow to all of them, but being appointed King's Companion had meant a lot to the sergeant. To have not only the title but his honour ripped away so cruelly just days later had almost broken the big man.

  "I don't know what you lot was thinking," said Linnir, stamping on his shovel to force it deeper into the snow. He gave the handle a twist and turned to Muuril with the laden shovel. "Fifty men against a legion? If that'd been me, I would have handed Ullsaard over first thing. Might've gotten a reward instead of spending the rest of your lives clearing snow, shovelling shit from sewers and eating hard bread and gruel."

  "Doesn't work that way, does it?" said Loordin. "Ullsaard's been our commander for nearly ten years now. You don't walk away from a man that's done good by you."

  "Ullsaard's done fuck all except get your mates killed and you lot up to your necks in shit." Linnir turned back to the drift. "And what thanks do you get? None. Even when you're willing to lay down your lives for that bastard, he goes and turns out to be a coward after all."

  Gelthius opened his mouth to shout a warning out of instinct, but Loordin's shovel hit Linnir in the side of the head before the words came out. The man pitched forwards into the snow, blood spewing from a ragged gash above his ear. The drift turned pink as more life fluid pumped from the deep wound, the hot liquid melting a red valley through the snow.

  Loordin stepped towards the injured man, shovel raised for another blow. A gloved hand closed around the handle of the tool and wrenched it away. Gelthius saw Muuril toss the improvised weapon back along the road, and slapped a hand into Loordin's chest when he made to take a step towards it.

  "He's still alive," growled Muuril, nodding towards the groaning Linnir. "Murder gets your throat slit."

  "I thought you of all of us would understand," said Loordin. He glanced at Gelthius, who had to look away. "You heard what he said about Ullsaard."

  "He's right," said Muuril. He pushed Loordin back and hauled Linnir to his feet. The man's furs were soaked with blood and Gelthius could see the white of bone poking through the rip of flesh caused by the shovel. Muuril hauled Linnir over his shoulder and then strode off towards the group of blackcrests hurrying down the road to investigate.

  "No, Ullsaard was never a coward," said Loordin. The blackcrests stopped Muuril and inspected the injured man over his shoulder. Spears lowered, three of them closed in on Loordin. "He was a bastard, but never a coward. We're his men. Thirteen!"

  His rallying cry went unanswered and Gelthius focussed his attention on the wooden blade of his shovel.

  "I just know that, thanks to Ullsaard, I'm never seeing Maredin or my children again," said Gelthius, turning his back on Loordin. "Fuck the Thirteenth."

 

The palaces of the king had many audience chambers and feasting halls, but none of these were as grand as the domed Hall of Kings. Large enough to seat seven hundred guests, the chamber was built from blue-green marble from Maasra, and had been erected in celebration of the inclusion of that province into the empire. Several hundred lamps hanging on gilded chains illuminated the evening's proceedings which were, considering the size of the venue, somewhat smaller than the grand occasions for which the hall had been built.

  Present at the king's midwinter feast were his mother and two aunts, his younger brother Ullnaar, his wife Neerlima, and daughter Luissa, who was seven summers old. The rest of the hall was taken up with numerous dancers, acrobats, firebreathers, contortionists, stilt-walkers, puppeteers, and several pipers, drummers and hornblowers. The musicians had begun the feast but were now silent, having worn thin the king's patience with their parping, banging and tweeting noises; Urikh had never been fond of music in any form and was not going to tolerate it while he was eating.

  Sitting at the centre of a long table arranged crosswise in the hall, the king had to look left and right to see his family, and spent most of the meal gazing down the length of the hall, over the heads of the performers.