Gav Thorpe - The Crown of the Conqueror

"I deemed it unwise to apprise the council of the severity of the current setbacks of the situation with regard to the continuing heroic campaign in Salphoria and the problems arising in Okhar," said Leerunin, once again amazing Ullsaard with his ability to spin out the simplest of answers into the longest of sentences.

"Why would it be unwise?"

"The imperial economy had been soundly boosted by your exploits to duskwards and many contracts and transactions have been sealed on the understanding of the accruement of wealth from future conquests and discoveries."

"I see," said Ullsaard, though he didn't but was sure a better explanation could wait. "Let me make sure I have this right. None of the nobles or powerful merchant houses know that the Salphorian campaign has stalled and the Mekhani are giving us grief?"

Leerunin hesitated for a moment, struggling with the concept of giving a simple answer before sighing heavily.

"That is correct, king," he said.

"And they have spent a lot of money — money they don't actually have yet — throwing me a welcome back gala?"

Again Leerunin squirmed.

"That is also correct, king."

Ullsaard said nothing more, allowing the chamberlain to silently writhe in a misery of his own making, until they reached the bottom of the Royal Hill, where the broad road split around the mound.

"I am going to take the long route, through Maarmes, while you are going to head straight up the mount and assemble as many of the nobles and merchants as you can find in the next hour. Bring them to the Hall of Askhos so that I might address them."

"Yes, king, I shall do as you say forthwith and wi-"

"Now," Ullsaard growled. Leerunin set off at a brisk jog, breaking away from the route of the parade.

Ullsaard had faced down many foes in his time, and had gladly marched to battle against each and every one of them. The thought of disgruntled merchants and out-of-pocket nobles filled him with a deeper agitation than any confrontation he had yet encountered. His grip on the Crown was loose at best, and it had been the promise of Salphoria that had secured the backing of the most powerful families in the empire. Now he would be forced to explain his failure, yet at the same time not reveal the true secret of what held his wrath at bay; the nobles would care not one jot for Ullsaard's family and would be likely to take the matter out of his hands if they knew the truth. Add to that the risk of Mekhani attack in Okhar — from tribes he should have subjugated when instead Ullsaard had been warring against his own king — and the situation looked even worse.

Despite the triumphant shouts, the placards with their mottos of victory, the swirling streamers, the laughing children, Ullsaard did not feel much like celebrating.

The chipping of the mason's chisel rang coldly from the marble walls and floor. Ullsaard sat alone at the end of the Hall of Askhos, lounging in a large, plain chair of black wood. Around him had been carved the names of the fallen, those who had given their lives for the glory of Askhor since the founding of the First Legion. Line after line of tiny script named more than two hundred thousand casualties of Askhor's wars. There were so many that the walls were nearly half-filled.

Ullsaard had only come here once before, during his investiture as a general of the empire. He had read some of the names, wondered about the men they represented. Several thousand were simply listed as 'Legionnaire of the Empire'; these came in blocks signifying the few defeats sufficiently disastrous that the dead could not be distinguished from the deserter.

Had they been brave or cowards? Had they died on the field, from their injuries, or swiftly despatched by their companions to ease their suffering? The weight of so many dead was a terrible burden, and the knowledge that the names being constantly added were now Ullsaard's responsibility was heavy on his shoulders. As a commander, he had led men to their deaths for the ambitions of others. As king, it was his ambition that waged bloody war.

That was the point, Askhos told him. Since returning to the capital, and closer proximity to the Crown, the dead king had been a constant presence in Ullsaard's thoughts. A leader of men must ask others to sacrifice their lives for his cause, but he should never treat their deaths cheaply nor allow their deeds to go unrecorded.

Ullsaard said nothing. He was tired. He had slept little, fearful of Askhos's influence, retiring to his bed only when he was so exhausted he fell into dreamless sleep. He was fatigued from a day of dealing with dignitaries and petitioners; of having to tell the great and the good of Askh that the war in Salphoria was not progressing well and that the expenses they had incurred would not be recouped for a considerable time. He had chosen this place for his audiences to remind the nobles and the merchants, the bankers and the fleet captains, of the price others were paying for the campaign. Some had been moved by the sombre memorial; many had been so self-absorbed they had barely considered their surroundings as they whined about the money they were losing.

Ullsaard's thoughts turned to the Crown. It was locked in the palace vaults along with the dwindling treasures of the king. He did not know whether it was the presence of Askhos or his own fear that prevented him from wearing it, but its absence from his brow had been remarked upon more than once since he had returned.

"Leave me," Ullsaard called out to the mason. The wiry man nodded, packed his chisel and padded mallet into his belt and clambered down the scaffold on which he had been sitting. When he was gone, Ullsaard addressed Askhos.

"I can't deal with the situation in Magilnada and the Mekhani at the same time. The treasury is almost empty, and the nobles will not be putting up any more money for the campaign any time soon. Tax revenues are low, and slow to come in. I'm paying legions in Salphoria to stand idle. Anglhan is strangling trade through the Magilnada gap. I had hoped to hire some Nemurians to bolster the armies, but there is not the money for more than a handful. I thought the resources of the empire were inexhaustible. It seems I was woefully wrong."

Are you asking for my advice, or simply complaining?

Ullsaard hesitated, kneading his knotted brow with his fingers.

"I need your help," he admitted. He sighed heavily. "There are so many decisions to make. Everyone has plenty of advice, but every piece comes with another demand for action, another choice to make."

You thought being king would be a mere matter of leading the armies to victory and everything else would fall into place?

Ullsaard grunted and slumped to one side, elbow on the arm of the chair.

"Maybe. I have a chancellor, governors, paymasters, engineers all filling my head with information, expecting me to make sense of it all."

You know the advice I would give.

"The Brotherhood." Ullsaard shook his head. "How can I trust them?"

You misjudge them, and their loyalty. The Brotherhood is dedicated to the success of the empire and not one man. Only one, the High Brother, knows the truth of my existence. With the line broken, you are the rightful king. The Brotherhood will ease away the many pains of rule, allowing you to concentrate on the matters that are truly im portant. I could not have founded the empire without them. Like you, I have no mind for figures and commerce, though I have picked up much strategy over the years. Do not carry burdens others are willing to bear for you.

Ullsaard sorrowfully shook his head and scratched at his chin.

"It's too late," he said. "I do not know how to start the rebuilding of the Brotherhood. Most of the Brothers fled, some are under house arrest, and I have several thousand of them under guard in a camp at Parmia. I don't know what to do with them, or how to start things moving again."