The Crown of blood

II

There was no sight or sound that stirred Ullsaard more than an army on the march, and today was no exception. Drums thundered as the regiments of Askhor moved into action. Beneath circular gold icons depicting the face of mighty Askhos, the warriors raised their red-hafted spears and black lacquered shields and advanced. The sun glinted from red-crested helms and serrated spear tips while the desert sands shifted under the tramp of sandaled feet.

From the flanks of the army skirmishing kolubrid riders peeled off and dashed forwards. The reptilian mounts hissed as they ploughed through the sand drifts, black and red scales dirty with dust and grit. The riders aimed their bellows-bows towards the Mekhani who were descending the opposite slope. As the Mekhani closed, the riders pumped inflatable bladders to prime their weapons and let loose a volley of barb-tipped bolts. Arrows arced across the dunes in a crimson-shafted cloud before plummeting like bronze rain into the tribal warriors. The Mekhani's hide shields and animal skin cloaks offered little protection against the heavy projectiles and scores fell to the first volley, their blood quickly soaking into the sands.

Watching this impassively, Ullsaard was joined by Cosuas, his co-commander. It was frequently joked that the aging officer was the oldest man in Greater Askhor, but his taut muscles and springing step betrayed no infirmity. His clean-shaven, lined face was awash with rivulets of sweat as he stomped through the sand, a mace in his left hand and a long oval shield in his right.

"Are you trying to make me die of worry?" Cosuas snapped, glaring up at Ullsaard who was a head taller. "You could have been killed, or worse."

Ullsaard answered with a shrug. He had called the parley with good intent and although he wondered if it had been rash now was not the time to second-guess events beyond his control; what was done, was done. Hindsight might be good for others, but to Ullsaard it only encouraged doubt and regret and he had no time for such indulgences.

"It's your wives that scare me," Cosuas continued, casting his eyes up to the sky in exaggerated despair. "Do you think my life would be worth living if I let you die? I'd be nagged to death, if not actually ripped apart. I'd rather have my cock gnawed off by a wintermouse with one blunt tooth. "

Ullsaard laughed and shrugged again.

"You have to start a battle somehow," he said. "None of us want to be out in this sun longer than we have to be. I just got the Mekhani warmed up for the boys."

"We can't stand here passing the time of day, pleasant as it is," Cosuas said, clearly not amused by Ullsaard's indifference. "We've got a battle to win."

Ullsaard nodded and signalled to Prince Erlaan. The youth rode up on his ailur, leading Ullsaard's mount by its reins. Bred from the grey-furred mountain lions that had once plagued the tribes before the coming of Askhos, ailurs were regarded as a badge of office amongst Askhans and a leader's merit was often judged by the quality of his steed. In this regard, Ullsaard was very fortunate, for his was a prime specimen of the breed: Blackfang, a vicious she-ailur that was almost as old as Ullsaard and as tall at the shoulder as her master, her mane thick and black, plaited and bound with golden thread.

She was placid enough at the moment, her head encased in a spiked metal mask that covered her eyes with plates, held on by riveted straps that left her jaw free. Though blinkered, Blackfang's hearing and sense of smell meant she was still more than capable of fighting. Ullsaard patted her shoulder and pulled himself up into the high-backed saddle, swinging his bloodstained spear into a strap behind him.

"I don't understand why you walk everywhere," Erlaan said to Cosuas. "An old man like you surely needs whatever rest he can."

"The day I need one of those piss-stinking, flea-ridden, hotbreathed rugs with claws to get me around is the day you can light my pyre," said Cosuas. His well-known disdain for ailurs was his only deviation from Askhan orthodoxy and a source of respectful amusement amongst the officers that had served him over the years. Ullsaard thought it an odd view, but unremarkable in comparison to some of the affectations and habits of other commanders he had fought alongside.

Blackfang padded forwards, flanked by Cosuas on foot and Erlaan on his ailur, Render. Behind them slithered a coterie of messengers riding more kolubrids, ready to take Ullsaard's orders to his subordinates. In the desert valley the battle was quickly unfolding and Ullsaard was pleased to see the legions following the precise orders he had given them the previous night. Not that he had harboured any doubts: an Askhan legionary was highly trained and well-rewarded in return for his obedience and bravery.

The Mekhani were herded into the centre of a sandy depression by the harrying of the kolubrid riders. Ullsaard wanted them forced together so that their numbers would be a hindrance more than an advantage. Their foes thus hampered, the Askhan spear regiments formed into tight phalanxes and closed for the kill from both flanks. With their attackers coming at them from two directions, the tribesmen huddled about their behemodons, sheltering under the bows and slings of the giant reptiles' crews. Against the bronze-bound shields and helms of the Askhan legionnaires, these missiles had little effect; here and there an Askhan bled on the sands but the phalanxes marched implacably onwards.

Ullsaard knew the Mekhani's faith in their war beasts was misplaced. As the disciplined columns of the Askhans stopped a short distance from their unruly foes, six-man teams carrying lavathrowers emerged from between the advancing companies. Dragging wheeled barrels of combustible ammunition through the deep sand, the fire teams laboured to set up their engines, directing their iron muzzles towards the behemodons. Pumping furiously at the pressure-bellows, the teams readied their weapons.

At a shout from their commanders, they unleashed the burning fury of their machines. Jets of black-red flame leapt out like incinerating tongues, lapping at the behemodons and setting fire to the howdahs on their backs. The panicked grunts of the beasts sounded over the roar of flames. The monsters ran amok, throwing off their crews and crushing tribesmen in their angry stampede. Ullsaard spared a thought of thanks for the Brotherhood, keepers of the lava-fire's secret since the time of Askhos.

One of the behemodons loped into a charge towards the nearest lava-thrower. The men turned their machine clumsily towards it, a gout of burning fuel searing an arc through the air. Seeing that the enraged beast would not be stopped, they abandoned their engine and ran for the cover of the nearest spearmen. Behind them the behemodon, patches of fire still smoking on its hide, smashed into the lava-thrower and seized the machine in its jaws. As the gargantuan reptile lifted the lavathrower into the air the fuel tank exploded, splitting apart the creature's head and neck in a blossom of dark fire. Charred flesh rained down onto Askhans and Mekhani alike.

With their beasts slain, the desert warriors raised their crude spears and charged, churning up a huge plume of sand in their wake. Unintelligible battle cries hooting from their lips, the Mekhani hurled themselves towards the Askhan phalanxes.

Ullsaard exchanged a knowing look with Cosuas. The Mekhani had just made the fatal mistake the generals had been expecting.

Orders shouted along the line of companies, the drilled spearmen set themselves to receive the charge, forming a wall of shields and spears. Unheeding of the jagged barrier, the Mekhani leapt to the attack. Their stone spear tips crashed against shields while their bodies were spitted on the pikes of the Askhans.

Ullsaard watched the butchery without emotion. It was bloody and it was one-sided, which was the best way to fight a war. He turned in his saddle and gestured to one of his subordinates, a youth with sunburnt skin and a shock of red hair.

"Karuu, tell the cavalry to encircle the enemy," Ullsaard said to the herald. "I don't want any escaping to poison the wells or inflict other sabotage."

"What do you want to do with the survivors?" Karuu asked.

"Why don't we ask the young general-to-be?" said Cosuas.

"What do you think, prince?" Ullsaard looked at Erlaan. "Let's pretend this is your army."

Erlaan was deep in thought for some time; long enough for Ullsaard to think that he wasn't going to answer.

"There is no market for slaves these days," Erlaan said eventually. "With the expense of sending them back to civilised lands, it would cost us heavily. We cannot have them roaming around the camp, they will just cause trouble."

"So we just let them get away?" said Cosuas.

"No," replied Erlaan. "These savages will not learn. They will only come back again. We have to kill them all."

Ullsaard nodded in agreement, pleased that the young man had come to the right decision.

"There will be no survivors," Ullsaard told his messenger, keeping his eyes fixed on the slaughter.

As Karuu goaded his mount and slid away down the ridge, Ullsaard looked back to the battle. The phalanxes were driving into the heart of the Mekhani, their spears ruthlessly cutting down hundreds of tribesmen, their flanks protected from encirclement by lava-throwers and kolubrid riders. The Askhans advanced over a carpet of the dead, leaving piles of mangled bodies in their wake.

Ullsaard felt Erlaan's stare upon him as the battle unfolded with bloody predictability. He looked at the prince and saw a hint of distaste in his eyes.

"Horrible, isn't it?" said Ullsaard.

"It's a massacre, not a battle," said Erlaan.

"Good," grunted Cosuas.

"You're enjoying this?" Erlaan said, and shook his head. "What can be good about this?"

Cosuas did not reply immediately. He walked behind Blackfang to stand next to the young man's ailur. Erlaan stared down at the ancient general with faint disgust.

"Don't look at me, look at them," Cosuas snapped, raising an arm to point at the ongoing fighting. Erlaan once more directed his attention to the bloody work before them. "Would you rather it was Askhans that were dying? Perhaps you would prefer it if those poor Askhos-cursed Mekhani bastards were left maimed and wounded, to die bleeding in the desert sun, or to perish from thirst or diseased wounds?"

"They lost the moment they decided to fight," said Ullsaard. "The offer of peace was made and the Mekhani leaders refused it. We bear no responsibility for what follows. It is a mercy that we despatch them with the minimum of grief. We allow their families to collect the dead and perform whatever rites they wish to practice."

"I understand the principles." Erlaan puffed out his chest and tried to appear unconcerned but his eyes kept straying back to the fighting.

"You understand the principles, but here you will witness the practise," said Ullsaard.

"Those families will tell stories of what happened here," Cosuas said, grinding home the Askhan logic of war. The screams of dying men and crash of weapons illustrated that logic. "News will spread that Askhor has no mercy for those that oppose us and benevolence for those that do not raise arms against us. Some will not listen and they will also die. A generation from now, nobody will remember why so many were killed in this pointless place, if they even remember at all. They will remember only that Askhor is merciless and from that fear, peace prevails.

"News will spread that Askhor has no mercy for those that oppose us and benevolence for those that do not raise arms against us," the grim officer continued. "Some will not listen and they in turn will be killed. Over time, others will heed the warning and lives will be saved. A generation from now, nobody will remember why so many were killed in this desolate, pointless place, if they even remember this battle at all. They will remember only that Askhor is merciless to our enemies, and from that fear peace and harmony will prevail."

"As Askhos decreed," said Erlaan. "I am one of the Blood; there is no need to teach me about Askhos' legacy."

Erlaan's eyes were fixed on the fighting, unable to drag his eyes away from the gory scene, his expression perturbed.

"What of glory?" he asked.

"Overrated," grunted Cosuas.

Ullsaard laughed and Blackfang padded left and right for a moment, sensing her master's mood.

"This is glory," Ullsaard said, his humour gone as quickly as it had come. "Do you think that poets will write of Askhor legions butchering defenceless tribesmen? The noble houses of Askh will resound to verses about the brave soldiers of Askhor winning against hordes of red-skinned savages. Maniacal and bloodthirsty, in numbers without counting, the Mekhani terrors poured across the deserts intent upon rape and pillage until the bronze spears of our warriors held them at bay."

"That is why I pay little attention to poets," Erlaan said.

"Which would you prefer your husband, or brother, or father, or son to be? Called a hero or a murderer?" Cosuas said. "People don't care about the truth, they only care if their lands and children are safe, and they have a few Askharins to spend at the market. It isn't our place to give them other concerns."

The clash of weapons and hoarse cries of soldiers were diminishing as the Askhans crushed the tribal warriors. Those Mekhani that tried to flee from the relentless press of spears were cut down by the fangs of the kolubrids or the bellows-bows of their riders.

It was barely mid-morning and the battle was almost over. Ullsaard wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He needed a drink.