The Crown of the Conqueror (24 page)

  The prince felt hopeless. This was only his first command and his legion was in revolt. His father had entrusted this army to him and he had failed miserably in his duties. Out-thought and outmanoeuvred, he had blundered into Anglhan's trap like a boar into a pit. The king had tried to warn him, but he had fallen victim to his own trusting stupidity.

  Urikh had been right all along; he was a disappointment to his father. A mediocre son, a poor brother, a pathetic husband; that would be his appalling legacy. Worse than any of that, Jutaar knew he would be remembered as the commander of the First Magilnadan, a legion of traitors.

  Jutaar's eyes stung as he held back hot tears. Through misted vision he could see the turncoat companies advancing in wide formation, spears lowered for the attack.

 

"Shield up, prince," muttered Kaasin next to Jutaar, lifting his shield in front of the prince, legion icon in the other hand. "No point going down easy."

  The standard bearer's words cut through Jutaar's grief. That calm defiance rooted in the prince's spirit, reminding him that he was a prince of the Blood, but more than that, he was a legionnaire of Askhos. His father had told him with pride of how Cosuas had refused to surrender, preferring to die than witness defeat. Jutaar could remember listening to the old general's war stories, sitting on the veteran's lap as a child, his earliest memories filled with tales of blood and glory.

  "Men of Greater Askhor," Jutaar bellowed, bringing up his shield. "Make your king proud!"

  The prince watched the traitors advancing at an angle. There were four times as many of them as those loyal to Jutaar and their line extended far beyond the right of the prince's phalanxes.

  "Watch the flank," warned Jutaar. "Fourth company, advance twenty paces. Second company, withdraw twenty paces."

  The order was quickly passed through the companies. The loyalists adjusted accordingly, the echelon of phalanxes arranged to steer the renegades back towards their extended flank. Jutaar knew that it would make no difference in the result of the fight, but true to Karin's urging he would not allow himself to do anything less than the best he could.

  The traitors accelerated to a steady run when they were fifty paces away.

  "Receive the charge!" bellowed Jutaar, pulling free his sword. Despair had been swept away by anger; anger he had never felt before in his life. The affront of the traitors burned his pride; the insult to Jutaar and his family raged through his blood. "Let's make these cunts pay!"

  With a roar from both sides, the legionnaires crashed together. Jutaar angled his shield to deflect a spear point away from the man to his left. The prince lunged forward, driving his sword into the narrow gap in the opposing line of shields. Shields rattled and spears clashed all around, accompanied by the shouts of loyalist and traitor.

  Having weathered the brunt of the impact, the First Company pushed back under Jutaar's urging, stabbing with their spears. The prince hacked at the shield of the man in front, the repeated blows driving him backwards. A spear thrust over Jutaar's shoulder from the man behind, point ramming into his opponent's exposed shoulder. The prince swept his sword into the traitor's face as he fell back, the blade carving a deep wound across cheek and nose.

  A shield rim smacked into Jutaar's hand, jarring his arm. Spitting with pain, the prince kept his numbed fingers tight in their grip and thrust his sword into the arm of another man. To the prince's right, Karin went down with a shout, the snapped haft of a spear jutting from his chest. Jutaar pounced sideways, warding away another attack with his shield as a legionnaire in the second rank stepped forward, dropping his spear to take up the golden icon of Askhos.

  In the thick of the fighting, Jutaar had no idea what was happening to the other companies. It made no difference. Even if, by some twist of destiny, they were to prevail over the traitors, they would not survive against the Salphors and the other legion closing in. He chopped through the wrist of a hand holding a spear. With blood spraying, sweat dripping, everything in tumult around him, a strange thought occurred to Jutaar; he could not be taken prisoner.

  It was his last duty not to be used as a hostage against his father. The situation made things very simple, and that was just how Jutaar liked things. All he had to do was fight until he was dead.

  At that moment of realisation, pain lanced through his body as a spear clattered from the shield of the legionnaire next to him and punched into the right side of his ribs. He smashed the shaft apart as the enemy pulled out the spear, and turned his wrist to bring his blade crashing against the cheek guard of the traitor's helmet.

  The edge of a shield caught Jutaar below the brow of his helm, stunning him. Blood trickled into his eyes as he stumbled back. Two legionnaires quickly stepped in front to protect their commander, shields and spears at the ready. Wiping blood from his eyes with the knuckle of his thumb, Jutaar pushed back to the front. His hand was sticky with gore and more blood seeped down his right leg, pooling into his boot. His breaths came as laboured gasps and he wondered if his lung had been punctured.

  "Keep fighting," he growled to himself.

  He parried a spear thrust aimed at his groin and stamped on the haft, wood exploding in a shower of splinters. Both sides had abandoned any attempt at coordinated action as the phalanxes shattered, the combat degenerating into clusters of men fighting each other.

  Jutaar drove ahead, using his shield as a ram, knocking the man in front of him off his feet. Plunging into the gap, the prince sliced to the left and right, slashing at the traitors without any thought to where his blows landed.

  Something pierced the back of his left thigh, bringing him down to one knee. Twisting to bring up his shield against this fresh attack, the prince left himself open to a spear from the right, which caught him in the right shoulder, bronze scraping against bone. Sword slipping from dead fingers, Jutaar roared in pain and surged to his feet. His shield caught a legionnaire beneath the chin, snapping his head back, bone cracking. Driving his knee into the man's groin, Jutaar tossed his shield at the next enemy to come at him. In the moment this bought him, the prince snatched up a fallen spear in his left hand and swung in a wide arc, the tip catching another foe in the eye.

  He heard a snap of wood behind and dimly registered a spear point sliding into his lower back. A heartbeat later, pain seared down into Jutaar's legs and he collapsed, face hitting the ground. Sandaled feet trampled him, kicking the spear from his grasp. Agony burned through every part of his body as more spear tips sank through skin and muscle.

  Coughing blood, feeling splinters of bone moving in his flesh, Jutaar rolled to his back. He could barely breathe and both his eyes were quickly swelling, his face a bruised mess. He was surrounded by a ring of shadows, silhouettes of crested helmets against the light blue sky. Jutaar fumbled for the knife at his belt but his fingers would not work. A foot pressed down on his chest, igniting a fire of pain in his heart and lungs. Through squinting eyes, the prince saw the glitter of sunlight on a bronze blade.

  The last drops of Jutaar's life leaked from his wounds and he died, even as the sword sliced across his throat.

 

Wood smoke drifted between the mud-stained tents and through the line of legionnaires waiting at their company kitchen. Gelthius queued beside his friends, bowl and spoon in hand. Though tradition entitled a man of his rank to cut the line ahead of the rank-and-file he was still uncertain about taking advantage of most of the privileges of being Third Captain, to the amusement of both legionnaires and fellow officers.

  Not that such benefits would make any difference in the present situation, as he pointed out when Muuril reminded him that he did not have to wait in line with the rest of them.

  "First in line for slop?" said Gelthius. "What's the point of that? Now, if the foragers had found a bit of meat or some nice vegetables or fruit, you can be sure I'd be up front quicker than a dog after a hare."

  "This isn't right," said Loordin. "How long's it been now since the last wagons came in? Fifteen days?"

  "More like twenty since we had a proper resupply," said Muuril.

  They shuffled forward a few steps with the line. Up ahead, a legionnaire loudly voiced his discontent at the poor fare the legion had been enduring lately. There was nothing the men serving the plain boiled oats and heavy bread could do but shrug.

  "It's not right," Loordin said again. "Within two days' march I reckon there's plenty of Salphorian food. What's the king wasting his time for?"

  "How would I know?" said Gelthius.

  "Thought you were best friends now, captain," Muuril said with a grin. "Special advisor, isn't it?"

  Gelthius took this with a disconsolate shake of the head. His friends knew well enough that being a 'special advisor' was more of a chore than a blessing, but there were others in the company who genuinely believed Gelthius had some inside line to the workings of command; they would pester him for news that he did not have, or demand that he take up their complaints with the First Captain and King Ullsaard.

  "Advancing without secured supplies is risky," said Muuril, answering Loordin's question as the line took a few more paces towards a bench sagging under three soot-stained pots of gruel. "Come on, you've been on enough campaigns to know that. Like when we was down in Mekha, we couldn't go nowhere less we had enough water. What if there's a caravan coming right now? They know where we're meant to be. If we head off from here, they might never find us."

  "Yeah, but it's not right," said Loordin.

  "Say that again and I'm going to batter you," said Muuril.

  "Look, we're all hungry, right enough," said Gelthius, feeling that as Third Captain he had some responsibility to keep the men in the best spirits possible. "We can moan about it, or we can do our best to find some proper food next time we're on forage rotation. Other than that, you might as well work your jaw less and save yourself the energy."

  Loordin looked for a moment like he was going to continue complaining, but contented himself with an annoyed huff. Gelthius knew Loordin was far from alone in his view. Walking the rounds of guard and hanging out with some of the captains from other companies, he felt the discontent. There was the griping that legionnaires were always prone to, and then there was genuine dissent.

  Having had a hand in spreading a fair bit of unhappiness through the legions that had stood against Ullsaard's bid for the throne, and spent a dreadful winter with the Thirteenth when they had been beset by blizzards and plague, Gelthius knew how easy it was to tip the balance from discipline to desertion. Nobody had fled the legion yet, but with all of Salphoria to get lost in, it would only be a matter of time. It was only the presence of the king in the camp that was holding the legion together. As the Thirteenth, Ullsaard's chosen legion, the royal bodyguard, pride currently won over hunger, but there was a point at which pride would fail; when that happened, Gelthius was not sure which side he would be on.

 

The appearance of Maalus silenced the chattering in the king's pavilion. The gaggle of captains and commanders that made up Ullsaard's war council parted in front of the arrival, horror on the faces of a few, pity on the faces of others. The self-appointed general was supported between two Second Captains, thick bandages beneath his breastplate, his right leg ending in a bloodstained, swaddled stump just above the knee. The men carrying him were no better off, one with an arm in the sling, the other with a long cut across his cheek, his helmet scored by the same blow. Anasind was first to his feet, gesturing for the men to carry the commander to the vacated chair. Nobody said a word as Maalus hobbled across the stained rugs, wincing with every movement.

  Since receiving news of Maalus's defeat, Ullsaard had expected the worst, but to see the man himself so badly injured brought home the disaster that had happened. The king poured wine for the nobleman and took it to him. Maalus took a grateful mouthful and sat back, waving away his orderlies. The two captains retreated to the door with bows and concerned looks.

  "How many left?" said Ullsaard, getting to the point.

  "Three hundred, maybe three-fifty," said Maalus. "I do not know how many escaped the rout, but I would not expect to see them again."

  "The messenger said you were attacked by a tribal coalition," said Anasind. "What happened?"

  Maalus took another drink.

  "Lukha's dead, his legion destroyed as well," he told them. "Scouts reported a Salphorian army, maybe two thousand strong, twenty miles duskwards of where we were camped. I sent word to Lukha, and we combined our legions for the attack. It should have been easy. Such a small force of barbarians against two legions? Just the sort of fight you told us to pick. About six or seven thousand more Salphors had moved through the forests coldwards of Lukha's camp. They came in behind us the day before we were going to attack. Our only chance was to break through the small army and head duskwards into the wilds."

  Maalus bowed his head and stared into his cup, lips tightly pursed. He did not look at any of the other men as he continued.

  "Seems the scouts were wrong there, too. Not two thousand, but four thousand. They had dug ditches in the fields and fortified the farms. Lots of bows, thousands of them. Savage hound packs, chariots drawn by shaggy creatures I've never seen before. There was no way we could fight. Lukha and I agreed to split. He went to duskwards and hotwards, I went dawnwards. We thought that one of us might get away with our legion intact, maybe mount some kind of rearguard. I think the Nemurians decided to stay to make a fight of it. I hope they killed plenty of those Salphor boy-whores."