Gav Thorpe - The Crown of the Conqueror

"We'll turn coldwards and take ship in Ersua, head down to the Greenwater and get off at Narun. That'll take fifteen days at the most. We'll be in the capital well before the rains start, gives us at least thirty days to sail down to Okhar and sort out Urikh. Might even get a legion or two to Near-Mekha before things get worse to coldwards."

"We're going to Mekha?" Gelthius couldn't hide his surprise.

Ullsaard glanced across at the legionnaire, almost as startled by the interruption.

"Of course, you've never been, have you? You weren't with us the last time the Thirteenth was there."

"Is it true that there's these giant lizards the size of a house, and the Mekhani have skin as red as an apple?" Gelthius had always doubted some of the stories his fellow legionnaires had told him about the desert lands, and he figured the king would tell the truth. "Do the women really have three tits?"

Ullsaard laughed and almost tripped. He paused for a moment, regaining his balance before striding on.

"No, they've got two tits like other women. The lizards though, that's true. We call them behemodons. Killed one myself, I suppose you heard."

"I did, right enough," said Gelthius with a chuckle. "Some of the lads admitted they thought you was a goner that time, when that big old thing tried to bite your head off."

The king turned his head and winked.

"I'll let you into a secret. I didn't fancy my chances much, either."

Ullsaard fell quiet, perhaps remembering the occasion, a wistful expression on his face. In the moonlight, he seemed older, the lines in his face, the sunken sockets of his eyes, the creases in his brow deeper than normal.

Not wanting to disturb his king's thoughts, though filled with questions about Mekha, Gelthius walked alongside the cart in silence. Up ahead, the scouting party had stopped beneath a stand of scattered trees, the light of the stars and moon shining from waxyleaved branches. The first glimmers of a fire flickered in the shadows.

"Looks like we're making camp here," said Ullsaard. He coughed and spat. "We need to be off before dawn. We're close to Magilnada now, better to move under cover of night when we can."

"They can't patrol the whole border, king, not with just two legions."

"Anglhan raised a third legion," Ullsaard replied with a soft growl. "Fat bastard's got more money than I have. We'll have to watch our step all the way to Ersua."

"Right enough, king. I'll head out tomorrow and have a word with some of the locals, see if they know where this new legion's kicking about."

Ullsaard stopped and straightened suddenly, his height almost toppling the baggage out of the handcart's open back. The king turned a penetrating gaze on Gelthius, who took a couple of steps back, scared by the scrutinising glare.

"You've had plenty of chances to slip away between camp and here," said the king. "Why haven't you? You're a Salphor."

"Not rightly sure, king," Gelthius replied with a relieved shrug. "My family's still in the followers' camp with the Thirteenth. No point going anywhere without them. I don't think deserting ever occurred to me, king. Just loyal, I guess."

Considering this, the king started walking again, the cart wheels rattling as the ground became rockier underfoot.

"No other reasons?" Ullsaard asked as the turned up the slope towards the copse where the fire was now burning brightly.

"I suppose I like to be on the winning side, king. Who doesn't?"

"You know the current situation, don't you? Most of my legions are trapped in Salphoria, between Anglhan's and Aegenuis's armies. The Mekhani are on the brink of all-out invasion of Okhar. The empire's straining to the limits just to keep trade moving and supplies flowing. And you think you're going to be on the winning side?"

"Well, yeah." The question seemed pointless to Gelthius. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't going to win, would you? I mean, nobody thought you could become king, did they, but you did. I don't reckon this is half as hard as that, is it?"

Ullsaard did not reply straight away. With a grunt of effort, he dragged the hand cart the last few paces to the trees. He gently lifted the yoke over his head and lowered the handles into the grass. The king grinned at Gelthius, eyes flashing in the moonlight, his whole demeanour wolfish, feral. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders.

"When you put it like that, I can't lose."

Circle after circle stood around the Last Corpse; men, women and children, staring vacantly ahead, flesh pallid. Atop the slab of black stone and bone, Erlaan lay staring at the ceiling, ignoring the silent, unmoving people around him. Beneath him, the Last Corpse was almost freezing to the touch, gradually leeching his energy from him, absorbing the life force he had taken from his father.

He was not sure what was going to happen next, but was certain that he would not regret it. Lakhyri would not explain the details of the changes that would be wrought on Erlaan, or the method by which they would be made, but the high priest had been adamant that it was the only way to reclaim the empire.

Erlaan could not hear the captives breathing, but he could feel their presence, their life in this dead place. Each of the two hundred and thirteen was like a candlelight in darkness, burning with vitality. Ten times that number had been taken, but they had been judge unworthy and sent to the deepest bowels of the Temple. Erlaan did not know what would happen to those that had been rejected, and did not dare to guess. He focussed on what was important: himself.

He had a feeling now for how the Temple worked, had experienced the transfer of energy between himself and his father. It was another sense, like touch or taste, somewhere inside him, its secret held within his Blood. Lakhyri skirted on the edge of existence, barely present, and even the youngest acolytes were dull embers compared to the prisoners that had been taken by the Mekhani.

"We will begin," announced Lakhyri, entering from one of the many dark corridors that led away from the main chamber. Behind the high priest came Asirkhyr and Eriekh bearing the tools of their craft; slabs of grey metal trays upon which glittered blades and hooks, styluses and ingots of silver and gold.

The two hierophants stood to either side of Erlaan while Lakhyri took his place at the prince's head. Erlaan shuddered as chill, dry fingers settled lightly on his brow, their touch as light as the scuttle of an insect on his flesh.

A distant chant echoed into the chamber, funnelled down into the hall through the maze of stone passageways. There was a different timbre to the invocation, a greater sense of urgency.

"Will this make me immortal, like you?" Erlaan asked.

"Better," replied Lakhyri. "You will think with the speed of lightning. The words that spill from your lips will be taken as truth by all that hear them. Every command you utter will be obeyed without question. You will run as swift as the wind. Your skin shall be as iron. Your lungs will be as the bellows of the forge. You shall be as strong as the behemodon. Your eyes will be as sharp as the hunting bird. All these gifts, our masters shall give to you. Speak no more."

The chanting washed through the chamber, bouncing from the walls, overlapping, growing in power, ripples of sound that disturbed the air like a wind on the water of a lake. Around and through Erlaan the chanting moved, rebounding from the circles of people around him to create eddies and currents that drew swirling lines of life from their bodies.

Erlaan could feel the energy, spiralling faster and faster, whirling towards the Last Corpse. Its touch was warm on his skin, seeping through his flesh and into his bones. This is not so bad, he thought.