Gav Thorpe: The Crown of blood

"News will spread that Askhor has no mercy for those that oppose us and benevolence for those that do not raise arms against us," the grim officer continued. "Some will not listen and they in turn will be killed. Over time, others will heed the warning and lives will be saved. A generation from now, nobody will remember why so many were killed in this desolate, pointless place, if they even remember this battle at all. They will remember only that Askhor is merciless to our enemies, and from that fear peace and harmony will prevail."

"As Askhos decreed," said Erlaan. "I am one of the Blood; there is no need to teach me about Askhos' legacy."

Erlaan's eyes were fixed on the fighting, unable to drag his eyes away from the gory scene, his expression perturbed.

"What of glory?" he asked.

"Overrated," grunted Cosuas.

Ullsaard laughed and Blackfang padded left and right for a moment, sensing her master's mood.

"This is glory," Ullsaard said, his humour gone as quickly as it had come. "Do you think that poets will write of Askhor legions butchering defenceless tribesmen? The noble houses of Askh will resound to verses about the brave soldiers of Askhor winning against hordes of red-skinned savages. Maniacal and bloodthirsty, in numbers without counting, the Mekhani terrors poured across the deserts intent upon rape and pillage until the bronze spears of our warriors held them at bay."

"That is why I pay little attention to poets," Erlaan said.

"Which would you prefer your husband, or brother, or father, or son to be? Called a hero or a murderer?" Cosuas said. "People don't care about the truth, they only care if their lands and children are safe, and they have a few Askharins to spend at the market. It isn't our place to give them other concerns."

The clash of weapons and hoarse cries of soldiers were diminishing as the Askhans crushed the tribal warriors. Those Mekhani that tried to flee from the relentless press of spears were cut down by the fangs of the kolubrids or the bellows-bows of their riders.

It was barely mid-morning and the battle was almost over. Ullsaard wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He needed a drink.

The walking wounded marched back to the Askhan camp while the honoured dead were set upon biers carried by their comrades. Those who had lost limbs or suffered other grievous wounds but still lived were gathered in three lines along the floor of the shallow valley, one hundred and thirty-eight in all. Some sat in groaning agony; others had slipped into fitful sleep. A few were lucid and sat muttering quiet thanks to Askhos while the rest endured the blazing sun in stony silence.

Behind each injured man stood a soldier with his dagger drawn.

Ullsaard stood with his hands on hips looking at the wounded, Cosuas beside him. Behind the pair, Erlaan sat upon Render holding Blackfang's reins. The ailurs bobbed their heads, flicked their thick tails and pawed the ground at the scent of so much blood. Ullsaard gave Cosuas a nod and the aging general took a step.

"Soldiers of Askhor, we salute you," he said. "As a son will lay down his life to protect his mother, so you have given all for the defence of the realm that raised you. You are heroes, one and all, and the memories of your deeds will be respected and cherished alongside the other favoured fallen in the Hall of Askhos. The king mourns for your sacrifice, as do we all."

At a signal from Cosuas the line of soldiers raised their blades and slit the throats of the wounded. None struggled, for they had been resigned to this fate since joining the legions. They knew that their families would be fed and sheltered by the king for three generations and each was thankful that he would not suffer a future as a crippled parasite suckling at Askhor's bosom. As blood dried in the sun, more biers carried away the newly slain.

Though he kept his expression stern, Ullsaard felt a little pity for those who had to die in this manner. In the press of melee it was not bravery or skill that decided who lived and who died, but luck. Those who had just given their lives for Askhor had been no less devoted, no less worthy of life than those who had survived.

Ullsaard was reminded that he might one day share the fate of those being taken back to the camp in honour, for the oaths of service he had taken were the same as those of every soldier. Some men might be swayed to cowardice by that vow, to avoid the danger of injury, but such men did not become Askhan officers. They became clerks or engineers, or priests of the Brotherhood, and suffered no dishonour because of it. From the teachings of Askhos, the king and people of Askhan recognised that some served with courage and some with other qualities. Like many military men, Ullsaard had his reservations about those that risked less than their lives for their empire, but it was impolite to mention such thoughts openly.

No Askhan legionnaire marched to war expecting to return, and such fatalism bred a stubborn courage that won battles other warriors would lose. If a legionnaire was fortunate enough to fight for ten years he earned himself a generous pension from the king and had a chance to live out his life in peace with his family. That more than half refused retirement at so young an age was testament to the appeal of life in the legions. Ullsaard knew well that the common man cared only for three things: his family to be safe, food in his belly and a little money to spend freely on whatever pleasures he saw fit when he could get them. For many, a life in the legions was preferable to labouring in the fields, or digging canals or building bridges.

"How many dead and injured?" Ullsaard asked as Cosuas joined him.

"Including those?" the general replied. "Seven hundred and forty-three dead, one thousand and six wounded but still capable of fighting."

Ullsaard nodded solemnly. It was not a bad toll, in truth. He had expected the price of victory to be higher but the Mekhani's spirit had broken early and they had been cut down in their rout. He grunted and waved for Erlaan to bring Blackfang. Ullsaard looked at the youth.

"Nothing to say?" Ullsaard said.

The young man shook his head.

"Good," said Ullsaard. "We'll return to camp and tomorrow morning escort the engineers and masons back to the bridge."

Ullsaard decided to walk with Cosuas, and sent Erlaan ahead with Blackfang. The tramp of thousands of feet had packed the sand into a rough road, cutting across the desert towards the Askhan camp.

"Why are we both here?" Ullsaard said after a while.

"To push forward the borders of Greater Askhor," Cosuas replied with a frown. "What else would we be doing?"

"No, I mean why send two generals to command a single army?"

"Scared of having the old man looking over your shoulder?" laughed Cosuas and Ullsaard chuckled at the thought of the much smaller man looking over anything, much less his shoulder. "I can still teach you a thing or two."

"I'm sure you can," said Ullsaard. "That's not my point. Either one of us can command this army, the other is a waste. Surely there are other campaigns that you or I could lead. Legions stand idle on the borders of Salphoria while you and I — and Prince Kalmud! — grub around in the sands. There is nothing here to fight over. The real prizes are to duskwards."

"You'd war with Salphoria?" said Cosuas, his mood suddenly serious. "Salphoria is divided, no threat to Askhor. Why start a costly fight when we can simply help the tribes fall out with each other?"

"Is that really what has become of us?" said Ullsaard with a sorrowful shake of the head. "Agitators? When did Askhor need any reason to go to war other than to expand the empire? Salphoria is rich with grain, ore and wood. Think of the great works we could undertake if we controlled those resources rather than paying the exorbitant prices of the Salphors? Askhos himself declared it our destiny to rule all of the lands between the seas. Yet what gains have we made in these last twenty years? Truly?"