Gav Thorpe: The Crown of blood

After a few minutes' contemplation, Cosuas opened his eyes and ducked his head into the water. He washed away the grime of the battle, using a stiff brush to clean the dried blood from his fingers. With a renewed spring in his step, he pulled himself out of the preparation bath and plunged into the rinsing tub. The cold caught his breath in his chest and he gasped, much to the delight of his underlings. Cosuas shared their laughter, splashing a few with a sweep of his hands.

"Some of us actually worked up a sweat today, you layabouts," the general joked.

The whole group left the rinsing pool and headed towards one of the two main baths. Several dozen warriors were already in the bath, swimming back and forth, others lounging around the edge, dangling their feet in the water or resting against the sides. Steam filled the air, the water kept hot by lava tanks buried beneath the packed earth.

Cosuas lowered himself gingerly into the water, letting his feet get used to the heat, then his legs, then his body and finally he submerged himself for a moment, the heat draining the last vestiges of stress from his body.

Yes, there certainly were advantages to being an Askhan.

V

Ullsaard's gaze followed Cosuas for a while until he turned between two tents and disappeared from view. The old man displayed as much energy and stamina as ever, an irrepressible vigour Ullsaard had known since he was young, but Ullsaard knew his mentor would not live forever. Cosuas had never taken any wives and had no children; the last of the line of Ersuan kings. With his death the royalty of Ersua would come to an end, his realm forevermore a dependant of Greater Askhor. More than that, when Cosuas died, Ullsaard would be the last general in Askhor not of the Blood. It seemed that men capable of leading armies were a dying breed; another sign that the King's ambitions were not as grand as his predecessors'.

Ullsaard's musings were interrupted by the approach of Karuu.

"General, a messenger from Askh awaits your attendance," the officer reported. "He bears missives from Prince Aalun."

Ullsaard nodded and shooed Karuu away with a wave of the hand. Tidings from the capital would be important; the prince would not send a messenger this far hotwards without good reason. Ullsaard mused on what it might be as he walked through the camp towards his pavilion at the centre. Kalmud, the king's eldest son, was campaigning to dawnwards along the Greenwater River. Perhaps the news concerned that.

Ullsaard caught scattered snatches of conversation as he walked through the camp. Morale seemed to be high, though he overheard many complaints about the heat and sand. Soldiers always moan, he told himself. Though the conditions were less than tolerable, today's battle had been the first serious fighting since passing into the desert. Most of the warriors seemed to think that the Mekhani had been dealt such a harsh blow they would be returning to their families soon. Ullsaard would not dissuade them of the notion for the time being, though he knew the Mekha war was just beginning; better that his men enjoy what peace they could; by the best guesses of the empire's scholars as many as three times the number of tribesmen slain today awaited the army's bloody attentions, spread across the vast desert. The summer would be long this year for many of his soldiers, and brutally short for others.

A bright red pavilion rose high above the orderly rows of white tents that surrounded it, Ullsaard's personal standard gleaming in gold from its central pole. Hunting scenes had been embroidered in black on the red cloth; visions of Askhor's lush forests and cold mountains that reminded all of what they fought for, not least Ullsaard himself. The quartet of guards stood at the doorway bowed their heads in greeting as Ullsaard approached.

"Send word for the prince's herald to attend me," Ullsaard said as he strode into the huge tent.

The floor was covered with rugs woven from Askhan wool dyed a dark red, deep and soft beneath his booted feet. Here and there sandy footprints trailed across the carpets, from the bare feet of servants and the sandals of soldiers. Linen partitions decorated with spiralling patterns divided the pavilion's large space into smaller compartments. Lamps hung from the roof beams, unlit for the moment for there was plenty of light provided by window flaps opened in the high roof.

The central area was lined with wooden screens painted with scenes from the plazas and avenues of Askh; the approach to the royal palaces, the racing circuit at Maarmes, the fruit markets of the lake quarter. Other officers decorated their tents with portraits of themselves and their families, but Ullsaard felt no need for such affectation. His family were kept in his heart and there they would stay. The scenes reminded him instead of his duties as a general of the legions, dedicated to the protection and future of Askhor before all other concerns.

Flanked by stools carved from black wood, Ullsaard's campaign throne was set upon a marble plinth that had been quarried from the hills far to coldwards in the general's native province of Enair. The stone was black and veined with red, like blood trickling down a bare slate. The throne itself was wrought from bronze and gilded with white gold, padded with cushions of blue velvet stuffed with the hair of ailur cubs, the back lined with white meimur fur. There was no doubt in Ullsaard's mind that it was indeed a magnificent chair, but just a chair nonetheless. His less intelligent subordinates were impressed by their general giving his orders from such a magnificent perch, and that alone was worth the effort of bringing it on the long march.

Upon seeing their master enter, two tan-skinned Maasrite servants came with clay ewers of wine and water, and another with a bronze tray set with a single golden goblet. Ullsaard nodded to the water bearer, who poured him a draught from his jug before the trio retired wordlessly to their positions at the side of the chamber. After taking a gulp of the refreshing drink, Ullsaard placed the goblet on the arm of the throne, sat down on the marble plinth and began to pull off his boots.

With a grunt the right boot came free and Ullsaard wriggled his toes, enjoying the cool breeze wafting through the open door. Sand was caked between his toes and on his instep and he waved to one of the servants.

"Fetch me a bowl of water, soap and a towel," said Ullsaard. The mute Maasrite bowed and departed.

By the time the servant had returned with the cleaning provisions, Ullsaard had wrenched off the other boot and sat with his feet in the deep pile of the rug, clasping and releasing the thick wool between his toes. The servant knelt down with the bowl and picked up the soap, but Ullsaard took it from him and waved him away.

"I'll not have any man clean another man's feet, no matter what they do in Maasra," Ullsaard declared.

"A sensible if unfashionable choice, General," said a voice from the doorway.

The short, slim man standing there was garbed in the red sash, kilt and cloak of a king's herald, his crestless helm under one arm. He was a little younger than Ullsaard, with long blonde hair that showed no signs of the grey that had assailed Ullsaard in the last few years. His face was softer though not chubby, and stubble betrayed that he was normally clean shaven but had not had opportunity to attend to his cheeks and chin in the last few days. A longsword hung at his belt, its hilt and pommel wrought from gold. To Ullsaard's eye it was a ceremonial duelling weapon, unsuited for real fighting.

"Noran!" exclaimed Ullsaard. Grinning, Ullsaard pushed himself to his feet and paced across the rugs with his arms open for an embrace. The messenger met him halfway and they hugged, clapping each other on the back and kissing each other's left cheek. "They just said a messenger had come, they never mentioned it was you."