The Crown of blood

I

Blackfang padded back and forth, mirroring her master's growing impatience. The city walls were but a stone's throw away and the general sat atop his ailur, glaring venomously at the blue-garbed official standing in front of him. Erlaan whistled quietly beside them, occasionally patting the mane of his mount.

"What's the delay?" snapped Ullsaard. The official shook his head solemnly.

"I do not know, General." He turned back to the gatehouse where the signal was to be flown. He gave a deep sigh of relief when a black and red flag fluttered from the tower. "They are ready!"

"About time," growled Ullsaard, flicking the reins. Erlaan took his place beside the general.

A roll of drums echoed from the walls and a solitary horn sounded, alerting the city to the return of their prince. Ullsaard's heart quickened as the noise of the crowd reverberated through the open gate. The pair rode into the shadow of the gatehouse as the noise swelled. A company of a hundred legionnaires broke into a march, keeping twenty paces ahead of the returning heroes.

Coming through the gatehouse, Ullsaard and Erlaan were bathed by the setting sun. It glinted from their armour and helms, from the masks of the ailurs and the tips of their spears. To either side the crowd erupted into a roar. Ullsaard saw a sea of faces; men and women, old and young, merchant and soldier, all with eyes bright and mouths open. Young girls naked but for red cloaks skipped ahead of the parade, scattering offerings of salt and grain onto the road. Garlands were cast from the crowd, showering Ullsaard and the prince with leaves and petals.

The general held up his spear in a salute and the noise became deafening. Lines of legionnaires shouted warnings and pushed back the mob as the people of Askh surged forwards to see their betters. A buxom woman broke from the mass, ducking beneath the cudgel of a soldier to grasp at Erlaan's leg. She reached up and stroked a loving hand inside his thigh. Her words were lost in the din and a moment later she was dragged away and pushed back into the throng.

The prince leaned towards Ullsaard, his voice raised to a shout to be heard.

"Shame we don't have a few Mekhani to show off. That would drive them wild."

The crowd had made their own substitutes. Amongst the waving bouquets and hastily-daubed signs he saw rag dolls of red-dyed wool being vigorously waved. Here and there redpainted straw effigies burned atop poles, hung with tin coins on slender chains.

In the crowd were many off-duty legionnaires and a fair number of veterans. Their close-cropped hair and scars marked them out amongst the mass, and Ullsaard took care to smile and wave at each of those he saw.

The parade continued past the market forum, which had been emptied of its stalls save for a few licensed traders selling food, beer and wine. Here the street opened out into a vast cobbled square, packed with humanity. The windows of the upper storeys of the surrounding buildings were packed with the shopkeepers and their families; children excitedly waved bunting made from dyed twine and papyrus, their shrill cries cutting through the throatier roars of their elders. Buoyed up by the crowd's appreciation, Ullsaard beamed back at them, shaking his spear triumphantly.

From the forum, the Royal Way continued upwards, straight into the heart of Askh, past the three-storey homes of the noble families, with their semi-circular facades and steepling roofs. Here the tumult was lessened, though servants packed the doorsteps of the street, while their masters and mistresses crowded balconies and roof terraces to wave appreciatively; more at Erlaan than Ullsaard, the general noticed.

Ahead rose the Royal Hill, the highest point of the city, where centuries before Askhos had been born and founded his empire. The palaces sat like a crown atop the mount, surrounded by a white wall. A maze of flat roofs, towers and domes could be seen above the wall, flags of red and black hanging limply from dozens of poles. Wooden scaffolding obscured the dawnward wing of the main palace and several other buildings; Ullsaard had lived in the city for thirteen years and never known a time when there was not some construction work being undertaken.

To coldward and duskward of the palaces, on top of a secondary crest just below the palaces, stood the Grand Precincts of the Brotherhood. The grey edifice was built on five levels, a ziggurat of drab stone surrounded by a flat plaza reached by winding steps that traced back and forth along the duskward side of the Royal Hill. The precinct was older than the city, the ancient centre of the Askhan tribes' culture, the hub around which their civilisation had revolved. Smaller versions of the temple could be found in all of the other cities of Greater Askhor, physical extensions of the power of the Brotherhood. It was from here, not the palaces, that the true power of Askh was wielded. The Grand Precincts had created the first laws of Askh, formed the first courts, kept the Archive of Ages; all of the foundations of the empire that Askhos had taken across the lands behind the spears of his legions.

Half a mile more brought them to the central area of Askh, where a wide road encircled the landscaped palace grounds and gardens. The group turned dawnwards, to come around the palace past the bloodfields and racing track. More companies of soldiers stood to attention along the roadside, icons freshly polished, commanders calling them to attention. Their shields were etched with the device of a crown; the famous First Legion, bodyguard to the Blood. In a long ripple, spearpoints were dipped in salute and raised again when the pair passed by. The procession continued around the circuitous avenue, heralded by a clarion of horns when they came to the fields of Maarmes, where duels were fought and athletes contested in feats of speed and skill.

Here the crowds ended. Instead there stood long lines of the Brotherhood, heads bowed in solemn silence; row upon row of shaven scalps and black robes. The higher Brothers stood at the end of each line, eyes ahead, faces hidden behind blank silver masks. After the earlier furore the quiet was profound; not even the birds stirred in the trees that lined the Maarmes circuit.

Finally they came to the palace steps and dismounted. Dozens of functionaries flocked around the arrivals, to take the ailurs, offer wines and meats on gilded trays, and escort the pair up the long flight of stairs to the coldward gates of the palace. Ullsaard took a cup of light beer from one of the trays and downed the draught in one long gulp. With the note of a solitary gong, the gates opened into the palace's interior.

Erlaan was the first to pass the threshold, as was his right by tradition and his rank. Ullsaard was happy to hang back as more flunkeys bustled around. The hall within was lit by a few oil lamps placed in front of curved mirrors, while the last of the sunshine trickled through narrow windows in the ceiling paned with thick triangles of glass that broke the light into dim rainbows.

A clapping of hands sent the horde of servants scurrying to the sides of the hall, revealing a tall, slender man who looked a little older than Ullsaard. His hair was greying but still thick, cut straight at his shoulders. He was swathed in a long robe of vermillion, a sash of white embroidered with golden spirals across his chest. He sported long sideburns plaited with red and green beads, though his lip and chin were clean-shaven.

"Erlaan!" The man welcomed the prince with a hug. He turned to Ullsaard. "My good friend! It is a pleasure to see you."

"You also, Uncle," said Erlaan.

Ullsaard and Prince Aalun gripped wrists in a warrior's greeting. The general said nothing, but nodded his head and smiled.

"My father?" asked Erlaan, his voice breaking suddenly. Ullsaard realised that for all his own impatience, the young man must have been even more frustrated by the delays in organising the procession.

"He is in the king's throne room, with your grandfather. Run along and see them now; we'll have important business shortly."

The youth smiled his thanks and headed quickly up the hall, a swarm of servants descending upon him as he reached the arch at the far end.

"You should have some time to see your family," said Aalun, turning his attention back to Ullsaard. "Come to the throne room in the last call before Howling."

"Thank you, Prince," replied Ullsaard. He waited for Aalun to turn away and head after his nephew before crossing the hall to his right and pushing through a curtained doorway into the corridors that led to the apartment wing. He walked quickly, exchanging nods and smiles with a few familiar faces until he reached the wooden doors of his chambers.

He hesitated, taking a deep breath.