The Crown of blood

IV

Third captain Huuril woke up from a dream of spiralling shadows and golden eyes. Blinking in the darkness of the tent, he stared up, the whispers of the dream lingering in his mind. As he listened to the half-heard voices, the golden eyes came back to him, surrounded by a swirl of dark smoke writhing in strange patterns. The golden eyes hovered in the gloom just in front of him, staring unblinking into his soul.

He could not break his gaze as the eyes came closer, burning into him. He felt them upon his own eyeballs while the twisting black smoke writhed into his ears and nose and mouth. He closed his eyes and the golden orbs were there, inside his eyelids, burrowing into his brain. He could hear nothing except that rapid whispering, a litany of meaningless syllables pouring into his thoughts.

Huuril's eyes snapped open, flecks of gold in their veins. He looked to his right to see the others in the tent rising from their beds. He felt the urge that propelled them and stood. Together they put on their gear and took their weapons from the rack along the side of the tent. They mustered in a line outside, staring numbly ahead.

The meaningless whisper returned and the twenty men stepped together, turning towards the centre of the camp.

V

Noran was instantly awake. It took him a moment to work out what had disturbed him: the quiet tread of feet and jangle of armour. It was out of place, a break in the routine he had become accustomed to in the camp. Quickly slipping on his clothes, skin prickling in the cold, he padded to the door of his tent.

Behind him a servant, woken by his master's movements, asked if he could help. Noran shushed him into silence and peered through the tent flap.

The snow had stopped, but there was an icy tinge to the air, like a frozen mist. There was not a breath of wind, no singing across the ropes, no flap of canvas. Above, there was not a cloud in the sky, and no moon, but starlight shimmered through the strange fog. The stillness was unnerving and Noran instinctively grabbed his sword belt from the table close at hand. Strapping it on, he stepped outside.

A glance to his right showed the two sentries standing in front of Ullsaard's red pavilion. Further along the row of tents, he could see more legionnaires standing guard at the end of the street of wooden planks.

To the left, he saw a group of men approaching through the sparkling light; it was their noise he had heard. Noran shrank back beside his tent as he saw twenty legionnaires marching in step, heading directly towards him, shields and spears at the ready. He could hear nothing else across the camp save for the distant, muffled calls of men on the walls confirming the hour of the watch.

The approaching legionnaires were barely a dozen paces away. Noran looked at their faces and saw slack expressions, like men sleeping. Their eyes were open and by the light of the stars Noran thought he saw a strange glitter to them, with a hint of gold. He stayed immobile as the soldiers marched closer, armour jingling, feet tramping in time. They seemed intent on Ullsaard's pavilion.

Noran was going to shout a warning or a challenge, but stopped.

He was sure that they meant to slay Ullsaard, and he hesitated. Ullsaard's death would solve so many problems. This whole misadventure had been his doing, and with one spear thrust it could be ended. Noran could return to a semblance of normality. He would no longer have to worry about his indiscretion with Meliu. Ullsaard's death would make life far simpler for Noran.

Crouched in the shadow of his tent, he watched the legionnaires pass, disturbed by their shining eyes. As they came level with him, he heard a faint whispering floating on the edge of hearing. It was not the soldiers, their lips were unmoving.

Guilt at his inactivity gripped Noran, but there was nothing he could do. Twenty men would cut him down in an instant and Ullsaard would still die. He clenched his fists and bit his lip as the men continued past, no more than twenty paces from the door to the general's pavilion. The sentries outside looked curiously at their fellow legionnaires, but they had no more chance of stopping them than Noran.

But the guilt was too much. Noran had betrayed Ullsaard badly enough, he could not salve his conscience with more treachery.

"Hey!" he shouted, stepping out from the shadow with his now-drawn sword in hand. "Stop there!"

The twenty legionnaires halted and turned on the spot to face him, moving in time with each other. Terror gripped Noran as flickering eyes stared at him and twenty spearpoints lowered in his direction. The mesmerised soldiers regarded him for a moment and turned away to continue towards the general's pavilion.

"Ullsaard!" Noran bellowed, running towards the closest legionnaire.

He swung his sword at the man's undefended back, smashing it against the scale armour, bronze slicing bronze. The legionnaire fell wordlessly, collapsing on his face. The others rounded on Noran in an instant.

"Alarm!" Noran's voice broke into a wordless shriek as a spearpoint caught him in the shoulder.

He batted away another thrust, stumbling backwards. A third spear caught him in the thigh, ripping through the flesh. Noran fell with a cry of pain as the spear was pulled from the wound. He swung his sword blindly, slashing across the legs of the man that had attacked him. The legionnaire toppled to one side without even a grunt, his golden eyes staring at Noran past the bleeding stump of his leg.

More spears closed in on Noran as he shouted again.