The Crown of the Usurper (11 page)

  "Though it is of no concern of yours, you are right. The less Urikh knows about the current situation, the better. The first he hears of Ullsaard's discovery will be seeing his father's corpse. If not, there is a chance that he might well decide to imprison Ullsaard or something equally counter-productive."

  "I do not think that Urikh would be sentimental towards his father," said Leraates.

  "That is highly unlikely. A more probable cause of interference by the king would be a desire to handle the matter personally. If Urikh decides that he wants to be in charge of his father's death it could threaten the successful outcome of our efforts. Regardless of Anglhan, Ullsaard, Urikh or any other distraction, you must stay focussed on the ambition we share."

  "To see the rightful ruler installed, and the new empire created," said Leraates. He dipped his head in deference to the high priest. "I shall not forget."

  Herikhil's features squirmed and changed again, dripping more blood down his bare chest, until his face resembled the youth once again. There was a beatific smile on the boy's lips as Lakhyri pulled away his presence. Eyelids fluttering, Herikhil regained control of himself, eyes slowly focussing on the senior Brother.

  "Such light and sweetness," murmured the youth. He turned to a bowl and rag on a table next to him and washed his faces, splashing the floor with water and blood. Wiping his hands and brow, Herikhil looked at Leraates. "I am tired. Do you wish for me to contact anybody else today?"

  "No, Herikhil, you may rest," said Leraates, gesturing towards the bare slab that served as the boy's cot. "You have done well."

  Leraates left the youth as he lay down on his stone bed. Lakhyri had not said anything against Leraates' plan of action, and he assumed that he had the high priest's consent to search for the king in Salphoria. There was still much to organise – legions, bribed Salphor chieftains, Brothers – but he was spurred on by the thought that he was nearing his goal. In a matter of days, perhaps two dozen at most, he was sure he would have Ullsaard in his grasp.

 

The rain was pouring down, the clouds blocking all light of moon and stars. The lights of Marradan could be seen a few miles to coldwards; thousands of torches on the city wall and lanterns lighting the streets were enough to create a glow on the horizon.

  In a dell a little more than hundred paces from the main hotwards road another much smaller light glowed in the darkness.

  The shuttered lantern, almost closed tight against wind and rain, only shed enough light to illuminate a circle no wider than a man's outstretched arms. In that dim glow, three men huddled behind a handcart turned on its side, their cloaks hitched over their heads on spears to create a rough awning. The three men sat on rectangular shields, arms crossed over bronze breastplates to keep warm. All three were sodden wet, their tunics sticking in folds to their flesh, leather kilts glistening in the lamplight.

  "Should've grabbed our bedrolls," said Loordin, his teeth chattering.

  "Wasn't time," replied Muuril.

  "What's keeping Gebriun and Faasil?" asked Gelthius. Not long ago he had heard the distant ring of bells in the city. "It's past Gravewatch by now."

  "We should go," suggested Loordin. "If they ain't here yet, they've been caught. Simple as that. They could be leading them blackheads right here."

  "Give them a few more hours," said Muuril. "They might be hiding out until the gates open again at Dawnwatch."

  "Right enough," said Gelthius. "We'll start off second hour of Dawn, before the road gets too busy. Should put a few miles between us and the city."

  "I'm off for a shit," said Loordin.

  "In this?" said Muuril.

  "Don't figure you want me dumping it in your lap, big man," replied the legionnaire. "I went to the place that puts all them Maasrite spices in the food last night and it ain't biding its time no longer."

  Loordin disappeared into the darkness, already hitching up his kilt around his waist before he was out of sight.

  "Can you sing?" asked Muuril.

  "Not really," said Gelthius. "Why?"

  The sounds of Loordin's evacuation erupted through the rain, causing both men to grimace. It was followed by a string of swear words and curses.

  "Too late," said Muuril. "I've already got an image now."

  "What do you reckon the king'll do next?" Gelthius asked, to take his mind away from the sounds of bowel movements and mild distress emanating out of the darkness.

  "Ullsaard? Not sure. Perhaps you can help me figure this out. We go marching off to conquer Salphoria, and while we're away that little fuck of a son gets big ideas and decides to be king for himself, right?"

  "So far, I think."

  "We ain't in Carantathi more than two days before Ullsaard decides it's time to go home for a little reunion."

  "Yeah, that seems to be what happened."

  "So do you think the king got wind of what Urikh was up to?"

  "Maybe heard a rumour or had a feeling," said Gelthius. "He couldn't have been certain, otherwise he would have come back with the whole army. That would put Urikh in his place, right enough."

  "Well, he couldn't abandon Carantathi, could he? Pull out the legions and the Salphors would be back to their old tricks in no time at all."

  "Bit of a shame, really. Being king is more of a pain in the arse than you think, isn't it?"

  "It is when you've got a bitch's cunt like Urikh for a son. Hold up, the rain's dropping off."

  Gelthius pushed himself to his feet and leaned out from under the cloak roof with a hand outstretched. Just as he was doing this, there was a yelp from the direction of Loordin. The legionnaire came stumbling back into the dell, a brown stain down the inside of his right leg.

  "Fucking arsehole, you should've cleaned up!" snarled Muuril, standing up to grab Loordin's breastplate in preparation for shoving him back into the dark.

  "Someone's coming!" Loordin hissed, slapping away the sergeant's arm. "Shut your holes!"

  They all looked to where the legionnaire pointed, at a spark of light in the night. It was a lantern swaying on a pole by its pendulous movement, and soon the sound of the rain drumming on canvas pulled taut could be heard. As it approached, the light resolved itself into a lamp, hanging on the side of a cart coming up the road. The tramp and splash of an abada's tread became audible. There was a man in heavy robes and hood on the driving board, and Gelthius took the driver to be a Brother.

  "Put out the lamp," he said, not looking at the others. The darkness around him deepened as one of them complied.

  The cart stopped on the road, almost level with where the dell was. It was easy to find because there was a pair of trees flanking a broken gate; the landmark the five men of the Thirteenth had agreed would be their mustering point in the event of discovery.

  "Something not right about this bastard," said Loordin. There was a scrape as he drew his knife from its sheath. Gelthius' hand went to his own knife and pulled it out; it would be too difficult to untie the cloaks from the spears in the blackness.

  The cart driver stood up on his board, one hand on the reins, the other pulling back his hood. The light from the lamp was not enough to show his face as he turned left and right, staring into the gloom. Hitching the reins, the robed man jumped down onto the road and walked towards the gate.

  "You pig fuckers had better be here!" a voice called out, revealing the hooded figure to be Faasil. Turning, he stepped into the light of the lantern, revealing his distinctive jutting chin and broken nose.

  "You're late, you lazy cunt!" Muuril called back with a laugh.

  The three of them forged out of their shallow hiding place towards the wagon. They were halfway there when Muuril stopped and grabbed Loordin by the arm.

  "You," said the sergeant, propelling the legionnaire into the night, "still have shit on your legs. Show some self-respect."

  "Yes, sergeant," Loordin called back. His following words were a lot quieter as the dim outline of the man disappeared, but still unintentionally loud enough to be heard. "What about all that shit in your head, you bossy bastard?"

  "Leave him be, sergeant," said Gelthius as Muuril took a step after Loordin. He hated pulling rank sometimes, and even having any rank to pull, but it was amazing the effect it had on the others. Legion obedience was so ingrained, Muuril stopped immediately and turned back, despite being much larger and more experienced that the Salphor. "You can deal with him when we're back at camp with the king, right enough."

  "Right enough," said Muuril, his voice low with menace.

  They reached the light from the wagon lantern and found that Faasil was around the back of the cart, pulling something off the back.

  "Here you go," said the legionnaire, tossing a rolled blanket to Muuril. The sergeant caught it with a grateful smile. He flapped out the thick woollen material and flung it around his shoulders as another blanket came arcing towards Gelthius.

  "Where'd you get these?" asked the captain.

  "Stroke of luck, to be honest," said Faasil. He climbed up under the wagon's awning and dropped something else over the side to Muuril. "Have a ham, sergeant."

  Muuril caught it in one hand and held it to his chest like a babe to stop it falling into the dirt. Gelthius could smell the smoke and herbs from several paces away and his stomach growled, reminding him that they had not eaten since they had fled the city just after dusk.

  "What luck?" Gelthius asked.

  "Never mind that, where's Gebriun?" said Loordin, coming out of the darkness, legs now cleaned.

  "Climb aboard," said Faasil, glancing coldwards up the road. "There could be blackcrests coming for us."

  "Where's Gebriun?" snapped Gelthius, agitated by the man's evasiveness.

  "I had to leave him," Faasil said quietly. His voice became louder, more defiant. "It was that or we'd both get caught. I feel like a right arsehole, I really do, but I had to run out on him, there was nothing else to do."

  "Blackcrests?" said Muuril, heaving himself over the side with one arm, the ham still cradled in the other.

  "Nope, it was our own, the Twenty-first," explained Faasil, as Gelthius pulled himself up to the driving board. It was an old instinct; as an officer he didn't have to drive if he didn't want to. Faasil stepped over from the back to sit beside the captain and offered to take the reins.

  "I've got it," said Gelthius. "You just tell us what happened to Gebriun."

  "We picked up Loordin's message just before we were due on at Howling, and so we were able to skip off from that and make our way to the barracks stores. Figured you three would be leaving in a hurry, but that we would have some time to get prepared for the trip to Menesun."

  Gelthius slapped the reins across the shoulder of the abada and the wagon lurched as the horned beast took up the strain in the traces. With a creak of the axle, the cart started to move down the road.

  "We were still loading up the wagon when word must have reached the barracks from the palace. Gebriun sensed something was wrong when he saw the off-watch company coming back together. He went off to find a captain to ask what was going on and I carried on getting blankets and rations."

  With the abada plodding along, Gelthius was able to turn around and examine the contents of the cart. Muuril and Loordin lounged between piles of sacking, blankets, flour bags and meat cuts. There was a small keg stowed just behind the driving board. Loordin seemed to notice it for the first time just as Gelthius saw it.

  "Since it hasn't stopped pissing on us since we got to Marradan, I'm hoping that isn't water," said the legionnaire.

  "Oh? Right you are. Gebriun found it by the company kitchens. Dunno what's inside, but I figure on mead or wine."

  "Let's have a tap and find out?" said Loordin, leaning across the cart, his knife appearing in his hand. Muuril's fingers closed around his wrist and pulled him back.

  "Let's find out what happened to Gebriun first," said the sergeant. "No drinking until tonight."

  "What does it matter?" said Loordin. He tried to snatch his arm from Muuril's grip but failed, wincing as he painfully twisted his shoulder. "Let go of me, you great big arsehole."

  "Stop it," said Gelthius. "Not now."

  "Not ever," growled Muuril, thrusting Loordin back against the side of the wagon before letting go. The sergeant leaned close to Loordin's ear. "I'm still the sergeant, and you still do whatever the fuck I tell you to do."

  "Really?" said Loordin. "Says who?"

  "Says the captain," replied Muuril holding up his thumb. He curled his fingers into a fist. "And his four mates."

  Gelthius tossed the reins to Faasil and turned around further as Loordin met Muuril's stare. The third captain wasn't sure what to do. Muuril was right, but threats of violence were not the same as real discipline. In Salphor any chieftain could throw his weight around while he was in his prime or the best warriors gave him their support, but the authority of a sergeant, or a captain like Gelthius, had to stem from the whole weight of the legion being behind him, not just personal prowess and friends with muscles. Out in the late hours of the night, with not another legion soul within miles, Gelthius found that authority hard to summon up.

  The sergeant and the legionnaire were still fixing each other with dagger glares, slowly leaning towards each other until there was only a hand's span between the tips of their noses. In the shadows made by the lantern on the awning pole Gelthius noticed that each man had a hand on the hilt of his knife, though neither had drawn their weapons.

  The captain had to say something. He cleared his throat, but Loordin spoke before Gelthius had the chance.