The Crown of blood

IV

"Camp" described the Askhan settlement as well as 'cat' described an ailur. It was a whole town of canvas, wood and leather dedicated to war. In firmer ground coldwards of the desert, it stretched across several miles, atop a hill that had been flattened by legions. The land here was just about fertile and patches of tall grass broke through the dry earth and stands of short trees clustered around invisible underground pools, fed by the Nakuus River that ran lazily through the scrub at the base of the hill.

The camp was surrounded by a wooden palisade twice the height of a man with twenty roofed towers, built on an embankment of packed earth. Each log had been carried hotwards from the forests of the empire, the stunted trees of Mekha unsuitable for timber. A ditch as deep as the wall was high girded the palisade, an obstacle impassable save at the eight wooden bridges at the gates. The bridges were down at the moment, but at the call of Duskwatch, they would be drawn back behind the walls.

Smoke from hundreds of fires drifted over the tents of the legionnaires and the colourful pavilions of the officers. Each legion, six to eight thousand strong, was garrisoned in its own area, complete with kitchens, armourers and a forge. From a mile away the workers of the camp could be heard; hammers on metal, axes on wood and chisels on stone drifted across the dunes.

This was not just a place for soldiers to rest; it was a statement of intent. The gilded faces of Askhor stared down from the gates at the surrounding land. The blare of a horn marked the passing of the watch. This was the empire incarnate, a construct of ambition and conquest.

Here was to be the next town of Greater Askhor. Before any construction work could begin on the settlement, engineers and masons had to get a bridge across the river to allow more supplies to come from the Askhor territories far to coldwards. At the moment the hundreds-strong supply caravans had to travel down the Greenwater River before forging upstream along the Nakuus for many days to reach the camp.

A bridge would be the first part of a road stretching directly to coldwards, cutting at least ten days from the journey. When the bridge and road were finished, settlers would come — and some of the legionnaires would stay with their families — planting farms to feed a fresh move further into Mekha.

The harassment by the Mekhani tribes had put the force five days behind schedule and Cosuas was not happy at being forced to spend more time than was necessary in the blistering heat. His skin, much tanned from many campaigns, was peeling nonetheless and his stomach was knotted from eating starchy march rations.

The company of guards at the gate of the wooden palisade surrounding the Askhan fort raised their spears in salute as Cosuas approached, just ahead of Ullsaard and Erlaan. Cosuas returned the respect with a nod and walked between the two squat wooden towers flanking the entrance. Young boys scurried past him to take the reins of the two ailurs and Ullsaard and Erlaan swung down to the parched ground.

"I want to see Haraa, Entiu and Dor in my tent at High watch," Ullsaard said. Erlaan nodded and walked off across the camp to find the master masons.

"Do you need me for anything?" asked Cosuas.

"No," replied Ullsaard.

"I'll be taking a bath then," said the aging general, pulling off his helmet and striding away along a walkway of wooden planks sunk into the dirt.

There were waves and calls of greeting as the general strode through the encampment, heading towards the bath tent. Cosuas returned the welcomes with nods, keeping his feelings hidden behind the blank mask of his face. As he looked at the many hundreds of soldiers, he knew that at least one in ten of them would never see Askhor again; or whatever province they had once called home. In the time of Cosuas' ancestors the Askhor legions had all been from Askhor itself. Now Greater Askhor stretched thousands of miles beyond the old borders and the army was filled with foreigners like himself.

He had always thought of himself as an Askhan, never an Ersuan. Cosuas had been less than a year old when King Tunaard II, father to Askhor's current ruler, had conquered Ersua. Just like the thousands of other Ersuans now under his command, Cosuas had faced the decision of staying at home to labour in the fields or build the towns, or joining the army and campaigning to bring the rule of Askh to other lands. He saw no irony in a conquered nation aiding their conquerors to bring the same fate to others. It was simply the way things were; the strong got stronger and the weak did well to recognise their fate in time to survive.

And there were plenty of benefits to being an Askhan, Cosuas reminded himself as the horn sounded the quarter-watch. The large, steam-filled tent ahead was one such boon. He pushed through the flap into the antechamber and stripped naked, handing his armour and weapons to a Maasrite orderly. The young man passed the general a wooden scraper and opened the next flap into the main portion of the huge marquee.

The four large wood-sided baths had been dug into the sands and they were filled with soldiers washing and laughing, gossiping and dozing. Cosuas stood upon the preparation mats while more servants doused him with cold water. He used the scraper to get rid of the worst of the dirt from his skin and climbed into the nearest bath. The water was cool and pleasant after the heat of the desert and Cosuas sunk into the water up to his chin, eyes closed. He ignored the chatter of the other soldiers around him and instead tried to clear his mind of everything.

After a few minutes' contemplation, Cosuas opened his eyes and ducked his head into the water. He washed away the grime of the battle, using a stiff brush to clean the dried blood from his fingers. With a renewed spring in his step, he pulled himself out of the preparation bath and plunged into the rinsing tub. The cold caught his breath in his chest and he gasped, much to the delight of his underlings. Cosuas shared their laughter, splashing a few with a sweep of his hands.

"Some of us actually worked up a sweat today, you layabouts," the general joked.

The whole group left the rinsing pool and headed towards one of the two main baths. Several dozen warriors were already in the bath, swimming back and forth, others lounging around the edge, dangling their feet in the water or resting against the sides. Steam filled the air, the water kept hot by lava tanks buried beneath the packed earth.

Cosuas lowered himself gingerly into the water, letting his feet get used to the heat, then his legs, then his body and finally he submerged himself for a moment, the heat draining the last vestiges of stress from his body.

Yes, there certainly were advantages to being an Askhan.

V

Ullsaard's gaze followed Cosuas for a while until he turned between two tents and disappeared from view. The old man displayed as much energy and stamina as ever, an irrepressible vigour Ullsaard had known since he was young, but Ullsaard knew his mentor would not live forever. Cosuas had never taken any wives and had no children; the last of the line of Ersuan kings. With his death the royalty of Ersua would come to an end, his realm forevermore a dependant of Greater Askhor. More than that, when Cosuas died, Ullsaard would be the last general in Askhor not of the Blood. It seemed that men capable of leading armies were a dying breed; another sign that the King's ambitions were not as grand as his predecessors'.

Ullsaard's musings were interrupted by the approach of Karuu.

"General, a messenger from Askh awaits your attendance," the officer reported. "He bears missives from Prince Aalun."

Ullsaard nodded and shooed Karuu away with a wave of the hand. Tidings from the capital would be important; the prince would not send a messenger this far hotwards without good reason. Ullsaard mused on what it might be as he walked through the camp towards his pavilion at the centre. Kalmud, the king's eldest son, was campaigning to dawnwards along the Greenwater River. Perhaps the news concerned that.

Ullsaard caught scattered snatches of conversation as he walked through the camp. Morale seemed to be high, though he overheard many complaints about the heat and sand. Soldiers always moan, he told himself. Though the conditions were less than tolerable, today's battle had been the first serious fighting since passing into the desert. Most of the warriors seemed to think that the Mekhani had been dealt such a harsh blow they would be returning to their families soon. Ullsaard would not dissuade them of the notion for the time being, though he knew the Mekha war was just beginning; better that his men enjoy what peace they could; by the best guesses of the empire's scholars as many as three times the number of tribesmen slain today awaited the army's bloody attentions, spread across the vast desert. The summer would be long this year for many of his soldiers, and brutally short for others.

A bright red pavilion rose high above the orderly rows of white tents that surrounded it, Ullsaard's personal standard gleaming in gold from its central pole. Hunting scenes had been embroidered in black on the red cloth; visions of Askhor's lush forests and cold mountains that reminded all of what they fought for, not least Ullsaard himself. The quartet of guards stood at the doorway bowed their heads in greeting as Ullsaard approached.

"Send word for the prince's herald to attend me," Ullsaard said as he strode into the huge tent.

The floor was covered with rugs woven from Askhan wool dyed a dark red, deep and soft beneath his booted feet. Here and there sandy footprints trailed across the carpets, from the bare feet of servants and the sandals of soldiers. Linen partitions decorated with spiralling patterns divided the pavilion's large space into smaller compartments. Lamps hung from the roof beams, unlit for the moment for there was plenty of light provided by window flaps opened in the high roof.

The central area was lined with wooden screens painted with scenes from the plazas and avenues of Askh; the approach to the royal palaces, the racing circuit at Maarmes, the fruit markets of the lake quarter. Other officers decorated their tents with portraits of themselves and their families, but Ullsaard felt no need for such affectation. His family were kept in his heart and there they would stay. The scenes reminded him instead of his duties as a general of the legions, dedicated to the protection and future of Askhor before all other concerns.

Flanked by stools carved from black wood, Ullsaard's campaign throne was set upon a marble plinth that had been quarried from the hills far to coldwards in the general's native province of Enair. The stone was black and veined with red, like blood trickling down a bare slate. The throne itself was wrought from bronze and gilded with white gold, padded with cushions of blue velvet stuffed with the hair of ailur cubs, the back lined with white meimur fur. There was no doubt in Ullsaard's mind that it was indeed a magnificent chair, but just a chair nonetheless. His less intelligent subordinates were impressed by their general giving his orders from such a magnificent perch, and that alone was worth the effort of bringing it on the long march.

Upon seeing their master enter, two tan-skinned Maasrite servants came with clay ewers of wine and water, and another with a bronze tray set with a single golden goblet. Ullsaard nodded to the water bearer, who poured him a draught from his jug before the trio retired wordlessly to their positions at the side of the chamber. After taking a gulp of the refreshing drink, Ullsaard placed the goblet on the arm of the throne, sat down on the marble plinth and began to pull off his boots.

With a grunt the right boot came free and Ullsaard wriggled his toes, enjoying the cool breeze wafting through the open door. Sand was caked between his toes and on his instep and he waved to one of the servants.

"Fetch me a bowl of water, soap and a towel," said Ullsaard. The mute Maasrite bowed and departed.

By the time the servant had returned with the cleaning provisions, Ullsaard had wrenched off the other boot and sat with his feet in the deep pile of the rug, clasping and releasing the thick wool between his toes. The servant knelt down with the bowl and picked up the soap, but Ullsaard took it from him and waved him away.

"I'll not have any man clean another man's feet, no matter what they do in Maasra," Ullsaard declared.

"A sensible if unfashionable choice, General," said a voice from the doorway.

The short, slim man standing there was garbed in the red sash, kilt and cloak of a king's herald, his crestless helm under one arm. He was a little younger than Ullsaard, with long blonde hair that showed no signs of the grey that had assailed Ullsaard in the last few years. His face was softer though not chubby, and stubble betrayed that he was normally clean shaven but had not had opportunity to attend to his cheeks and chin in the last few days. A longsword hung at his belt, its hilt and pommel wrought from gold. To Ullsaard's eye it was a ceremonial duelling weapon, unsuited for real fighting.

"Noran!" exclaimed Ullsaard. Grinning, Ullsaard pushed himself to his feet and paced across the rugs with his arms open for an embrace. The messenger met him halfway and they hugged, clapping each other on the back and kissing each other's left cheek. "They just said a messenger had come, they never mentioned it was you."

"I asked them not to," said Noran, stepping back and smiling. "Why spoil the surprise?"

"Indeed, indeed," said Ullsaard. He waved his lifelong friend towards the stools and clapped his hands twice. "Wine and food for my guest!"

"Wait," Noran said as he raised a hand to stay Ullsaard's servants. "As much as I would dearly love to indulge in some reminiscing and wine, I have important matters to discuss with you first. We can eat and drink later."

"Leave us," Ullsaard snapped at the approaching servants. He turned to Noran, apprehension written on his face.

"Prince Aalun has demanded your attendance at the court," said Noran as the servants melted from view. "His older brother has fallen ill."

Ullsaard, slumped into his throne. "What is it? How long has the prince been afflicted? More to the point, why do I have to travel all the way back to Askh because of it?"

"Word came to the court only the day before I left," explained Noran, seating himself as Ullsaard slouched in the throne and took up his goblet. "It is an affliction of the lungs. The prince's life is in no immediate danger, but if his condition deteriorates, it jeopardises his campaign. I believe Prince Aalun wishes to discuss this, along with other matters to which I have not been made privy. I'm sure the prince is aware of the burden of travel and would not summon you for an inconsequential matter."

"We've only just fought a battle," Ullsaard said, rubbing his chin in thought. The notion that Aalun perhaps wanted him to take over Kalmud's campaign encouraged him, but he was loathe to leave his army to Cosuas without knowing when he, or if, he would return. "There are preparations to be made for the cremations and honour to be given to the dead. If I leave suddenly, rumour will quickly engulf the army. And there's the matter of this unfinished bridge."

"Cosuas can deal with all of that," said Noran with a dismissive wave. "Probably better, he's been doing this sort of thing even longer than you have. The prince was insistent that you attend him at as soon as it was practical. In fact, he was adamant."

Ullsaard frowned and stood.

"Then I have no choice," he said, suppressing a rebellious sigh. "Though I would rather continue the campaign here, one of the Blood has spoken and I must obey. It will take some time to get ready for a return to Askh. If this concerns Kalmud, I should take Erlaan back to the capital as well, to see his family. He'll have to get everything packed away for the journey. It will be too late to leave tonight; first thing in the morning will be soon enough."

"That would be good," said Noran. "I will inform him of what I know while you get yourself ready to depart. I have a galley waiting at Atanir to take us up the Greenwater."

Noran stood and stepped towards Ullsaard.

"I wish that we had met again in better circumstances," said the messenger. "All the same, it is good to see you, Ullsaard." Ullsaard smiled and laid a hand on Noran's shoulder.

"It is good to see you as well, my friend," Ullsaard said. "On the road you will have to tell me what you have been doing with yourself these past two years."

"Well, maybe," Noran said with a wink. "There's a few tales I'm not sure that I trust you with!"

Noran gave a nod of reassurance and turned towards the doorway. At the edge of the rugs he turned back to look at Ullsaard.

"And get your feet washed, I could smell them as soon as I came in," he said with a grin.

Ullsaard nodded and smiled, and watched his friend leave the pavilion. He suppressed another sigh. A trip back to the capital was no small diversion, even if there was the promise of a more profitable command at the end of it. His servants would have to pack up everything needed, gather supplies from the storehouses; there were wagons and abada to requisition, handlers needed for the ailurs.

There was also the question of whether or not to take a bodyguard. There was little physical danger travelling to coldwards; the Greenwater was patrolled by the galleys and soldiers of Askhor and prosperity had swept away most of the brigandage that had plagued the empire in earlier generations. On the other side, it was expected that a general of Askhor travelled with a certain amount of style and gravitas. Tradition and appearance were considered by many to be as important as practicality.

On balance, it would be less of a pain to leave the soldiers and travel with servants alone. The presence of legionnaires escalated matters; they needed officers, their own supplies and other considerations that would turn what was already a considerable journey into a major expedition.

"Attend me!" yelled Ullsaard and moments later a dozen servants came scurrying from amongst the wooden screens.