Gav Thorpe - The Crown of the Conqueror

"Nah, we weren't going to kill nobody," replied another of the group. He glanced at his two companions. "We was just told to stop you leaving."

"You tell me what Naraghlin's planning to do, and I might persuade my friends to let you go. It better be quick, cos they're not happy about having to leave their nice, warm beds in the middle of the night."

"We're abandoning the town," the first warrior shouted. "Naraghlin's got no stomach for a fight. It was Kalsaghan's idea to stop you returning to your camp. Him and Mannuis was going to use your family as hostages; send you back to your new king with a false surrender."

Gelthius thought about this for a moment.

"Naraghlin's right, you have to leave," he told them. "We'll be back with the legion in two days at the most, and another two days before they get here. The tribe's got three days to get moving."

"You want us just to up and leave our homes?" This was from the third man, the youngest of the group, his blond hair tied back with a leather thong, his beard not long enough to plait. "Kalsaghan won't stand for it. He'll fight."

"He's fucking dead!" snarled Gelthius. "You'll all be dead unless you leave. That's the choice, right enough. Stay here and die, or go somewhere else."

"What are you talking about?" said Muuril, stepping next to Gelthius. "They're keeping us busy until the others arrive. Tell them to fuck off, or we're going to kill all three of them where they stand."

"My friend here isn't happy," Gelthius told the Linghars. "If I was you, I'd start running now."

The tribesmen gauged the legionnaires carefully. Not liking what they saw, they backed away until the darkness swallowed them. Gelthius heard the splashing of their feet as they broke into run, until even that noise was swallowed by the downpour.

"Let's get the cart and get going," said Gelthius. "It's a ways around the mound back to the town, but it won't take them long to bring back more warriors. We need to get out of here."

V

The rain stopped after midnight, some time around the turn of Gravewatch by Gelthius's guess. His wife, daughter and youngest son dozed in the back of the wagon while Faeghun drove the abada. The others walked beside the cart, sloshing across the muddy plains in silence. As the first glow of dawn smudged the horizon in front of them, Muuril had to concede to the pain in his wounded leg and ride on the wagon; a decision that provided shallow entertainment for the other legionnaires for the next few miles.

The sunrise ahead revealed low cloud, the whole sky tinged with foreboding grey. The wind kept the chill of the night and Gelthius marched on trembling legs, his face and arm sore. Though occasionally he looked back towards the place he had been born, he doubted the tribe would have pursued them any distance; the death of Kalsaghan would have dampened any spirit amongst the Linghar warriors. He hoped that Naraghlin would heed the warning and move the tribe away without a fight.

As the morning brightened, the legionnaires agreed to take it in turns to ride on the wagon and snatch some sleep. All of them had been awake for most of a whole day and the fight of the previous evening had taken its toll, despite their conditioning and determination. Although Gelthius was supposed to be in charge, he was happy to defer to Muuril's organisation and gratefully sank into the pile of blankets next to Maredin when the sergeant judged it to be the start of Low Watch.

Gelthius slept in snatches, woken frequently by the pain in his arm and the jolting of the wagon. Eventually fatigue won over discomfort and he fell into a deep slumber.

He was shaken awake by Gannuis. The early clouds were thinning and Gelthius blinked in the light, guessing it to be coming close to noon.

"It's Gebriun's turn, ain't it?" he mumbled, sitting up.

None of the others said anything. Gelthius pulled himself up using the side of the wagon and stood swaying in the back. The others were looking ahead, slightly to coldwards. Gelthius turned to see what had caught their attention.

A ribbon of glittering sunlight was snaking over the crest of a ridge a few miles away. It took a moment for Gelthius to work out what he was looking at: hundreds of spears and helmets. It was impossible to tell the individuals apart at this distance, but the smudge of red and black was unmistakeable. There was other movement ahead and around the main body of men; outriders moving on swift kolubrids. It was the Thirteenth in full column of march.

Never had Gelthius experienced such mixed emotions.

On the one hand, the sight of his legion filled him with relief. Within the hour he would be back amongst his comrades, wounds properly tended, food in his belly.

On the other hand, it was sight that filled him with dread. This was Askhor embodied, bearing down upon the lands of the Linghar with full force.

Not even on that strange day in Thunder Pass when he had watched the Thirteenth butchering Aroisius's rebels had Gelthius feared so much what those legionnaires represented. They were the end of the Linghars, his people. He had fought in the legion, shed blood for Ullsaard, and even helped put the new king on the throne in Askh; only now did Gelthius realise that he was a part of Greater Askhor. When the Thirteenth reached the town, his past, the history and traditions of the people that had raised him, would end.

Muuril laughed.

"Looks like the king couldn't be arsed waiting for a reply."

Late Autumn, 211th year of Askh

A lush wall of green bordered the river — giving the waterway its name — but Urikh knew that less than half a mile from the banks the vegetation petered out into rock and desert. The Greenwater expanded to more than a mile in width, more a sluggishly moving lake than a river, eventually dividing into a broad delta some four hundred miles further hotwards.

The journey so far had been uneventful. The inhabitants of a few scattered fishing villages had been astounded by the appearance of the fleet and several times Urikh had played host to chattering local dignitaries whose people had been brought into the fold of Greater Askhor by the campaign of Prince Kalmud. Most of these brown-skinned men and women spoke hardly a word of Askhan, and instead made their feelings clear through elaborate presentations of fish and fruits, while boats jammed with screeching women and children carpeted the river with petals.

Two days ago, these isolated settlements had disappeared. The forest crowded close to the water, the unearthly howls and bellows of strange birds and monkeys splitting the air at night, while swarms of flesh-biting insects descended on the ships every dusk and dawn.

The reason for the absence of other people was obvious to Urikh; this was Far-Mekha, the heartland of the red-skinned savages, believed by most decent Askhans to eat their fallen enemies and infamous for the sacrifice of their babies to the beasts of the desert. The festival atmosphere that had accompanied the fleet in the earlier days waned, to be replaced by wariness and caution.

It was close to this place that the last expedition to Cosuan had been waylaid by a surprise attack, and the governor of Okhar was taking no chances. Smaller vessels in the fifty-strong fleet scoured the banks of the river, looking for shelters harbouring the waiting enemy, their lookouts searching the thick swathe of trees and bushes for hidden inlets that might conceal the Mekhani. Behind this screen, the main fleet followed, twenty galleys with full holds, protected by an assortment of biremes and triremes carrying two thousand men of the Seventeenth Legion.

Turning his gaze upon the tree-crowded shores, Urikh shielded his eyes from the sun rising almost directly to starboard, squinting at the light dappling from the water. At the heart of the fleet, he stood on the raised aft deck of the largest ship, the flagship of Narun given as a gift by the merchants of the city to the former governor, Nemtun. The ship was a monster of a vessel; more than a hundred paces long, built on three levels and carrying more than four thousand rowers, sailors, officers and legionnaires. The deck underfoot reverberated with the pounding of the oar-drums and the creaking of three hundred sweeps, while Urikh's ears were filled with the singing of the wind against the masts and rigging and the slap and splash of the oars. The crack of the flag atop the main masthead, the pattering of bare feet on wood and the shouts of the sailors as they trimmed the mainsail added to the noise.