The Crown of the Conqueror

II

Two columns of red smoke merged in the air downriver, dispersing swiftly across the trees to duskward, adding to the ruddy haze of the setting sun. The ships of the fleet were already moving at speed; the shouts and drums of the oarmasters had begun the first moment a smudge of crimson had been seen on the horizon.

Urikh paced slowly from one side of the aft deck to the other, keeping out of the way of the crewmen preparing the catapults. He clenched and unclenched his fists in nervous agitation, caught between the thrill of action and nervousness caused by the same. Warfare was a risky business and he had done his best to avoid being embroiled in its haphazard attentions; throughout his father's bid for the throne he had always counted on the protection of at least a full legion around him.

The Mekhani had made their move in a narrower stretch of the river, where the Greenwater divided into several channels as it passed through high banks of rock, the main flow no more than a quarter of a mile wide. Leaving behind the merchants, the warships raced along, foam spraying up around their rams, the rapid rise and fall of hundreds of oars turning the river to froth.

Irritated by his own restless behaviour, Urikh paced to the rail and stared down at the crew busying themselves on the main deck. He gripped the polished wood tight to hold steady and affected an air of unconcern, while inside his stomach lurched not just with the motion of the ship but the thought of the impending chaos of battle.

Feeling slightly repulsed at his own fear, his thoughts turned to his brother, Jutaar, at that moment leading a legion in Salphoria somewhere. As youngsters it had always been Jutaar that would be the first into any potentially dangerous situation, whether investigating caves in the mountains above Askh or sneaking into the private gardens of the neighbours to spy on the womenfolk getting dressed. When faced with own his hesitance, Urikh reassured himself that it was natural for a sane and intelligent man to feel fear; and that his brother was too stupid to know when to be properly afraid.

Far from the steady glide Urikh had experienced on the previous days of the journey, the ship crashed through the water in a series of surges, hurled across the water with every draw of the sweeps, the whole vessel shuddering as the drumbeat boomed and two thousand and four hundred men threw their weight forward in unison. The alternating sensations of acceleration and slowing put Urikh in mind of a charging ailur, legs bunching and releasing, muscles tensing and relaxing.

He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the other ships, many so close to each other that their oars were almost touching. His apprehensions about fighting evaporated as he looked at the might of Askhor crowded around him. Urikh could appreciate the sense of power and achievement his father felt when he led a legion into battle; though he could not quite comprehend Ullsaard's apparent addiction to war that had driven him to personally lead the invasion of Salphoria.

This was what being a governor — being a Prince of the Blood — was meant to feel like.

The prince gloried in the spectacle of thousands of men, the effort and resource represented by this fleet and its crew, all bent to a common purpose: the execution of Urikh's will. To rule was not to sit on chests filled with askharins, or to have one's pick of any maiden for the royal bed. The reward for being in charge of the greatest empire ever created was not the politics and the negotiations — though Urikh enjoyed manipulating others. The simple exercise of power, the ability to enact one's plans and desires without hesitation, to command the loyalty and effort of countless servants, was the benefit of the Blood.

Urikh realised he was grinning, hand slapping the rail in time to the oar-drums. He glanced around the aft deck to see if anyone had noticed; standing next to the three men hauling on the tiller, Eroduus caught Urikh's gaze and smiled back with a wink.

"And those limp pricks back in Askh wonder why I bought a fleet," the captain called out. "There is not a race or blood duel at Maarmes that could match this, eh?"

Urikh laughed back, forgetting for a moment to appear stately and in control. He sneered at himself for the indiscretion and turned his back on Eroduus, his mood soured by the captain's intrusion.

Other than exchanging shouts with the crews of the closest ships, there was no way for the fleet captains to communicate with each other. Urikh could see nothing of the enemy ships from his vantage point, forced to listen for the sporadic shouts coming from the mastheads. He heard the cry of sails being sighted two miles downriver and waited impatiently for the number to be confirmed. The merchants who had been forced back by the pirates had claimed they were set upon by at least six vessels. Urikh hoped they were all in the water to be sunk; if he could deal with this situation with one act, it would be all the better.

"Four sail ahead!" came the next call.

That was good enough, to Urikh's mind. Even if the Mekhani were left with two ships, they were probably not going to threaten a well-crewed Askhan vessel. His only worry was that the pirates would realise their plight and flee too soon. Nightfall was no more than three hours away and darkness would allow the Mekhani to slip from the trap.

"Six sail ahead!"

Urikh smiled and rubbed his hands together. He felt the presence of Eroduus at his side and glanced at the captain.

"We have drawn them all out," said Urikh. "Now all you have to do is sink them."

"I think we can manage that, prince," replied Eroduus.

With the flagship leading the fleet like a mother swan followed by her cygnets, the twenty Askhan warships swept down the Greenwater. A mile ahead, the two galleys that had been despatched as bait were turning upriver, their spear throwers and catapults launching missiles at the low-beamed Mekhani ships trying to encircle them.

Though outnumbered, the Askhan vessels were handled better, oars moving with efficient strokes while the sweeps of the Mekhani ships had little coordination, some thrashing, others plunging deep into the water. Someone had shown the Mekhani how to build the ships, but not how to crew them. The desert tribesmen also had no war engines and were subjected to a hail of spears and boulders as they closed to board the Askhan ships. Fountains of water erupted around the closest pirate as boulders plunged into the river, while ropes were parted and the dirty white sail was torn by the flight of barbedtipped bolts.

"Eight sail ahead!"

Both Urikh and Eroduus looked up at the masthead in surprise.

"Count them again!" roared the captain between cupped hands. Urikh directed an accusing glance at his admiral, who answered the glare with an innocent look of incomprehension.

"Sorry, captain!" came the next call. Eroduus shook his head in disappointed resignation. The eyes of both men widened at the next cry. "Nine sail!"

There was muttering through the crew and the legionnaires on deck; the news must have permeated down to the oar decks as a babble of voices drifted up from the open hatches.

"Stop their noise," Eroduus snapped at the officers standing below the aft deck rail. They headed into the mass of men, cursing and snarling.

"Your mastmen do know how to count, yes?" said Urikh.

The captain ignored the icy remark and strutted to the starboard side to bellow at the trireme surging through the water alongside. Listening to the short exchange, Urikh heard it confirmed that there were at least nine galleys ahead.

"Doesn't matter," said Eroduus on his return. "We still have more than a match for them."

As if given a cue by fate, another shrill cry sounded from the mast top.

"Three sail to aft!"

Sure-footed on the rolling ship, Eroduus reached the aft rail beside the tiller a few strides before Urikh. Nothing could be seen of the ships themselves, but three white patches against the forest canopy on the bank were sliding along the coast. They were headed for the merchant ships that were now nearly a mile behind.

"They must have been hidden in one of the side channels," said Urikh. He rounded on Eroduus. "Why were they not seen?"

The captain could only answer with a nonplussed shrug and a shake of the head. Eroduus stared back upriver, lips pursed tight, jaw clenched; he stood so still that he might have been mistaken for a carving set to look over the stern of the ship.

"What should we do?" said Urikh, keeping his voice calm, though inside he was seething with anger. Blame and punishment could be meted out later; his first concern was to deal with the rapidly-changed circumstance in which he found himself.

"That is your choice, prince," said Eroduus, suddenly springing into life again. "Three options. One: split the fleet. Two: turn back and save the traders, leaving the galleys ahead to fend for themselves. Three: keep on ahead and hope that the merchants can deal with three galleys on their own."

Urikh looked fore and aft repeatedly, trying to weigh up the best course of action. The purpose of the expedition had been to get the cargo to Cosuan. Losing two galleys with nearly a thousand legionnaires on board would not go down well with his father and would lose Urikh the respect he had tried to maintain with Harrakil.

Urikh looked along the deck and saw the First Captain glancing back at him from where he was stood next to the company of legionnaires left on board. It was obvious to the prince that Harrakil knew what was happening and the choice Urikh faced. The prince desperately wanted to ask Eroduus what he would do, but that would be a terrible abrogation of leadership from which Urikh might never recover.

The choice was Urikh's alone, and if he was to be king one day, it was the sort of choice he would have to be prepared to make.

"Destroying the pirates is why we came here," he told Eroduus. "Send the four smallest ships back to help the merchant fleet. That still gives us enough ships to send those bastards ahead to the bottom of the river."

"Right you are, prince," said Eroduus, giving the briefest nod of agreement.

Urikh studied the captain's face for any sign of disagreement, but saw nothing in the few moments before Eroduus spun away, bellowing orders. These in turn were shouted to the nearby ships and on to the others, passing to the rest of the fleet.

Turning his direction downstream, Urikh could clearly see the Mekhani war galleys. Even to the prince's untrained eye, they were poorly proportioned, front heavy vessels that ploughed through the water like an abada fording a stream. Two of the galleys were foundering already, one with a mast snapped, another with a gaping hole in the starboard bank of oars. This second vessel was listing badly, doubtlessly holed below the waterline. At this distance, Urikh could see nothing of the crew, but imagined with some satisfaction the desert-dwelling Mekhani trapped on board as their galley sunk.

From their positions and directions of travel, Urikh guessed the Mekhani vessels had emerged out of another side channel behind the bait ships, which were attempting to sail around the incoming flotilla by steering close to the dawnwards bank of the river. Having seen the full number of foes facing them, the two Askhan captains were sacrificing the accuracy of their war engines for speed, but the closest attackers were less than two hundred paces away; the main fleet still had half a mile to travel before their catapults would be in range.

"No need to look so worried, prince," said Eroduus, joining Urikh again. "There are nearly five hundred men from the Seventeenth on each of those galleys. Those boys are an Okhar legion; they have been fighting up and down this river for years."

Urikh resisted the urge to glance aft at the galleys turning back towards the trade fleet. There was nothing he could do to influence the outcome of that battle. He brought this line of thought up short, realising that there was little he could do to chart the course of the battle about to engulf him. He was in the hands of Eroduus and his captains. Such was the nature of leadership, he told himself; if done well, everybody else did the work.

It was a frustrating time waiting for the fleet to close with the enemy. He had not felt so tense since he had watched his father march away with his legions to take Askh from King Lutaar. Remembering the sense of impotence that had plagued him during the long days before hearing word of Ullsaard's victory darkened his mood even further.

While resigned to simply waiting, Urikh saw that the situation ahead was changing quickly. The Askhan galley furthest downstream had stopped in the water, hull leaning at a slight angle, grounded on a rock or shelf under the surface of the water. Two Mekhani ships were slowly and inexpertly closing in through the shallows, suffering the wrath of the beached vessel's catapult and spear throwers.

The other Askhan ship was almost clear of the Mekhani, sail taut with a following wind, oars crashing into the water with relentless rhythm.

With a slap of ropes and a crack that startled Urikh, the fore catapult of the flagship launched a rock. The prince watched the blurred arc of the rock, following its course until it hit the river with a tremendous eruption of water just in front of the closest Mekhani galley.

More boulders descended on the enemy from the rest of the fleet, pocking the surface of the river like children throwing pebbles into a stream. One shot hit the side of a galley near the stern, sending up a cloud of shattering planks and splintering oars. A short cascade of bodies flopped into the water from the ragged hole in the oar deck.

Two of the Mekhani ships started a slow turn downstream, giving up their pursuit of the closest Askhan vessel. Three others continued on their course, hoping to reach their prey before the reinforcements arrived. Beyond them, the other two galleys were drawing along the port side of the grounded Askhan ship. Distant shouts carried up the river, announcing the commencement of the boarding action.

Following the instructions passed by Eroduus earlier, the main fleet split into two lines. The ships closest to the duskwards bank steered towards the shore, seeking to close off the Mekhani's route back to the channel from which they had emerged. The rest of the ships, headed by Urikh's flagship, continued directly towards the scattering Mekhani flotilla.

Acrid smoke wafted along the ship from braziers lit next to the spear throwers. The war engine crews loaded bolts swaddled in oilsoaked cloth and stood ready with brands, their machines trained as far to forward as possible. Fire flickered on the decks of the other vessels and soon trails of smoke drifted behind each warship.

The fighting on the beached galley was in full ferocity, a swarm of red-skinned warriors battling against the legionnaires on board to gain a foothold. The purpose behind the higher fronts of the Mekhani ships became apparent as the savages leapt down from the bow of their vessels, into the heart of the defenders. More swung across from mast to mast, many to be cut down as they arrived by sailors waiting in the rigging of the beleaguered galley.

Eroduus gave the order for the spear throwers to shoot, the command repeated like an echo from one end of the ship to the other. Crewmen put their brands to the tips of the bolts while others made last-moment adjustments of aim and elevation. With the general order given, each team was free to shoot when they bore on their target. Timing their shots between the thrusts of the rowers, the two spear engines hurled their flaming ammunition at the closest Mekhani ship. One spear fell astern of the target, the other slammed into the planks beneath the aftdeck; the successful crew jeered the poor aim of their shipmates even as they were loading the next bolt and winding back the firing arm.

The blur of more boulders against the blue sky followed swiftly as the flames from the embedded bolt licked along the pirate vessel. Timbers exploded from two direct hits, planks rupturing with a storm of splinters. The yard arm of another ship snapped, dropping the tattered sail onto the red-skinned men below, the two parts of the heavy wooden beam smashing through the decking.

Urikh smiled at the destruction and felt relief that it was unlikely he would have to tangle with the Mekhani face-to-face. Askhan ingenuity was again triumphant over savagery.

"Brace for ram!" bellowed Eroduus.

"What?" Urikh turned on the captain, aghast at the announcement.

The prince realised he had been so intent on the target of the catapults and spear throwers, he had paid no heed to a Mekhani galley directly in front of the flagship. Debris hung over the stern of the enemy ship in a tangle of wood and rope, dragging through the river like an anchor. Powerless to stop the huge trireme bearing down upon them, the Mekhani crew were lining the side of the ship, stone-tipped spears and crude hide shields in hand.

They were so close now; Urikh could see the wild anger of the foe, their crimson faces contorted in screeches and howls, spears clattering against shields in defiance of the massive vessel looming over them. The drumming and pounding of the oars had quickened beneath Urikh's feet, the ship constantly a-shudder as it reached ramming speed. The sailors manning the fore catapult secured their engine against the imminent impact and scurried back along the length of the ship. From the mastheads, soldiers with bellows bows loosed bronze-tipped shafts into the massed Mekhani.

As the flagship continued on its course, oar blades a blur of wood and water, most of the savages quietened, backing away from the side of their ship. Quite a few jumped into the river rather than face the terrifying six-rammed monster bearing down on them, only to thrash wildly for a few moments before they disappeared beneath the water.

"Hold on to something," said Eroduus, snatching hold of a line running tautly from the masthead to the stern of the ship. Urikh wrapped an arm around the wood of the rail and braced himself as the Mekhani galley vanished beneath the foredeck.

With a deafening crash, the flagship smashed into the galley almost directly amidships. Pieces of broken wood and mangled bodies sprayed over the bow, the impact hurling Urikh against the rail, almost sending him over it. The fore of the flagship rode up over the galley, tipping the prince backwards, driving the Mekhani vessel downwards. The deck heaved violently underfoot, the mastheads swinging, a clatter of cracking oars joining the creak of straining timbers and panicked shouts of the Mekhani.

With a snapping of ropes and tearing of canvas, the Mekhani ship's mast sagged and broke as the vessel keeled over under the weight of the flagship. Air escaping from the galley's fractured hold burst through the river, the water bubbling and frothing as if boiled. The wails of wounded tribesmen were piercing, and Urikh could see dozens of Mekhani stumbling around the slanted deck of their ship, blinded by splinters, limbs sheared off, bodies punctured and pierced with wooden shards.

"Hold boarding!" Eroduus called out as Harrakil headed up the tilted deck towards the enemy vessel, his companies of legionnaires right behind him. "That bastard's going to sink any moment."

The First Captain accepted this judgement with a raised hand and a look of disappointment. Sailors gathered on the foredeck, pointing down at the ruined Mekhani ship, laughing at the predicament of the barbaric tribesmen. The red-skinned natives dashed to and fro as their vessel slipped further and further into the embrace of the river, the current tearing away planks, widening the gaping holes in the galley's structure. Some cowered by the stub of the mast, clasping each other in horror, screaming in terror at the water surging up between the deck planks; others sought the sanctuary of the listing foredeck, delaying the inevitable by clambering up to the highest remaining part of the galley. The marksmen in the flagship's mastheads made sport of the tribesmen, easily picking off the red-skinned warriors with their bellows-bows.

"It will be a long time before these bastards come back on the water," said Eroduus.

Urikh only half-heard the captain. He was still in a semitrance, enraptured by the destruction wrought on the Mekhani galley. It had taken only moments, but the whole plateau was inscribed on the prince's memory in vivid detail.

He wandered across the aft deck as the flagship settled back into the water, spumes of water from the sinking galley spraying up over the ship's bow. Urikh lowered himself down to the main deck and advanced, pushing his way through the throng of sailors and legionnaires crowding towards the foredeck. His hands trembled as he grabbed the rope ladder to pull himself up to the bow. One hand on the rail to steady himself, he advanced cautiously to the prow and peered over to examine the wreckage of the enemy. All but the tip of the galley's foredeck was beneath the water. Red-skinned bodies bobbed amid the tangle of shattered wood and split rope; a few of the Mekhani clung to the debris, kicking fitfully at the water to reach the shore.

Hands tightly gripping the rail, he leaned further, casting his gaze down at the six trunk-like rams jutting from the hull of the flagship. They were draped with ruin, mangled bodies crushed against the hull, the water foaming red from under the keel. The pounding of feet shook the ship as the oarsmen were ordered to reverse their stroke. Slowly, the flagship was backed away with long sweeps, leaving a trail of corpses and broken wood.

Urikh laughed. It was quiet, barely audible above the scrape of the oars and the sluice of water along the hull. The prince looked up to starboard and saw the rest of the fleet hounding the other Mekhani ships. Two were boarded, legionnaires advancing along their decks, cutting and hacking with ruthless determination. Another three were sinking, the current at the centre of the Greenwater pulling them apart, dragging a slick of blood and dead downstream.

Clenching his fists to hide the shaking of his hands, Urikh turned aft. He was met with a sea of faces, jubilant and expectant. I'm supposed to say something, Urikh thought. A speech, to punctuate this moment of victory. The prince was at a loss; what would his father say? Urikh had no idea. He looked at the companies of legionnaires, Harrakil at their front, and the gangs of sailors up in the rigging and standing on the rail to see their prince. Over the heads of the crowd, he could see Eroduus on the aft deck.

It had been brutally easy. For all their guile, the Mekhani had been outclassed from the moment they had attacked. Urikh wondered if all victory felt like this; to him it was a job done and nothing more. The expedition would be a success, but it was just a small step on a long road for Urikh. The men he looked at cared nothing for that. They wanted to be told how magnificent they had been; they wanted to be reassured that they were invincible; they wanted to hear how they would be rewarded for the triumph.

Urikh looked at them, their faces shining with sweat, and felt cold inside. The excitement of the battle was ebbing out of his body, leaving his stomach tied in knots, his throat tight, his mind numbed. He could think of nothing to say.

A small part of his brain prompted Urikh into action. He raised his arm into the air, fist clenched. A simple sign of approval. It was all the excuse the men needed. They answered his signal with a roar, the deck shaking as the sailors stamped their bare feet and the legionnaires hammered spear shafts of shields.

Urikh heard someone shout his name, and the call was taken up. He grinned, yet knowing inside that he had done nothing to earn such tribute. Hearing his name shouted from all around, Urikh headed aft, the crowd of his men parting in front of him, all the while their praise ringing in his ears.

A day ago he had been a troublesome governor, making people's lives miserable with his demands. Today, he was a hero. It did not make any difference that he had been near rigid with terror throughout the experience. This victory and his name would forever be entwined. There was no secret to being a ruler. No amount of money, influence and politics could replace the power of victory. Give the people an enemy to hate and then rid them of that enemy; that was all a ruler had to do.

One day, his father could be that enemy. The empire could be turned on him as they had been turned on Lutaar. All Urikh would have to do is point the finger; the weakness of everybody else would do the rest for him.

All too easy, he thought.