The Crown of blood

III

Nemtun's army had been broken and scattered. All but the Thirteenth had been let loose on general pursuit, and would chase after their fleeing foes until nightfall. Ullsaard had kept his legion with him, though Anasind had grumbled that the men wouldn't like being denied the spoils of victory.

"Don't worry, I'll give them some extra money," Ullsaard said as he marched the Thirteenth along the road towards the Wall. "And they'll get to see something they'll enjoy."

A quarter of a mile ahead a few hundred legionnaires escorted Nemtun's caravan. It was almost comical; abada plodding along the road, the legionnaires arranged to either side looking over their shoulders at the legion closing on them at a quick march.

The escort finally lost their nerve and bolted for the hills when Ullsaard was two hundred paces behind them. The wagons continued to rumble along the road even as drivers leapt from the boards and followed the legionnaires. Ullsaard urged Blackfang into a loping run and the companies of Thirteenth followed, charging along the road to catch the carts.

This is too easy, thought Ullsaard. He expected to find that Nemtun had sent the wagons away as a lure and was waddling to safety across the hills somewhere.

Catching up with the carts, the legionnaires leapt up onto them and pulled the abada to a stop. Ullsaard rode along the line of wagons and saw a legionnaire leaping down to the road a little way ahead, holding his hand to his side. Blood poured from a cut, no doubt inflicted by Nemtun. Ullsaard felt a moment of happiness he had not experienced except in Allenya's company. The Crown was the grand prize, but repaying the insult Nemtun had heaped upon Ullsaard was a worthy second place.

The general pulled his spear from behind his saddle and dismounted, leading his ailur by the reins until he came level with Nemtun's carriage. He tied Blackfang to the back of the cart and walked to the front, spear over his shoulder. There was nobody to be seen, the curtains at the front of the compartment closed.

"Don't make me poke you until you come out," Ullsaard called.

He waited as the carriage rocked from side to side on its axles. Nemtun appeared through the curtains, a bloodied sword in one hand. The former governor looked at the lines of legionnaires gathering around him and tossed down the weapon.

"Are you surrendering?" Ullsaard asked.

Nemtun nodded with a scowl.

"Even an Enairian cock-eater can win when he's got more men," he snarled.

Nemtun lowered himself to his knees and shuffled to the side of the driving board before swinging his fat legs over the edge and dropping awkwardly to the road. There was no hint of dejection in him as he walked up to Ullsaard, thumbs tucked into his belt.

"You still haven't won, you know?" Nemtun said. "You think my brother will barter for me? He doesn't give two shits for me, and even less for you. Don't fool yourself. You've got this far, but you won't get any farther. Ten legions hold the Wall against you."

"No, they don't," Ullsaard replied. "You're full of shit."

Nemtun met Ullsaard's stare.

"If you do beat my brother, I'll govern Okhar for you."

"No, you won't," Ullsaard said quietly. "I've promised Okhar to my eldest son."

Incomprehension clouded Nemtun's features.

"So what are you going to do with m-"

Ullsaard's spear plunged through Nemtun's white shirt, catching him just below the right side of the ribcage. Red seeped through the cloth as the former governor, a Prince of the Blood, fell to his knees, cheek and chins wobbling. Ullsaard clubbed him across the face with the butt of his spear, breaking his nose and sending him sprawling to his back. Tossing the weapon aside, he grabbed the dazed man's wrist in both hands and heaved, dragging him a few steps along the side of the wagon.

"You're a fucking disgrace," said Ullsaard, rolling his shoulder as if he had strained something.

Recovering his senses a little, Nemtun flapped a hand at his stomach, blood seeping through his pudgy fingers and dripping onto his bare legs.

"That's it?" Nemtun snapped. "Fuck you, Ullsaard! It'll take more than that to kill me."

Ullsaard said nothing. Nemtun's eyes widened with terror as he heard a growl from just behind him. Blackfang took a step towards the prince, sniffing the air, tongue licking out. Nemtun tried to edge away, sliding himself along the road, but the noise attracted the ailur's attention and her blinded face snapped in his direction.

She pounced, slashing and biting wildly in her blinkered state. Ullsaard watched silently while the legionnaires hooted and cheered the grisly display, laughter greeting Nemtun's girlish screams until he fell silent, flesh shredded to the bone, throat ripped open.

Blackfang settled down to feed, licking at the streams of blood pouring across the stone slabs of the road.

Ullsaard looked away from the ailur's feasting. He gazed down the road towards the grey smudge that was the Wall. He didn't see the miles of stone. He looked upon the city beyond; the towers and walls and streets of Askh; and at their heart, the palaces of the king. His mind's eye arrowed to the heart of the palace, to the audience hall, where an old, bitter man sat with the golden Crown upon his wrinkled head.

"You're next, Lutaar," he growled quietly. "Just a few more days of being king. I hope you're ready."