The Crown of the Usurper (37 page)

  As Erlaan-Orlassai pulled himself from the wreckage of the bed, Ullsaard came at him again, driving the heel of his foot into the Prince's face. The blow would have floored a lesser man, but its only effect on the warped prince was to split his lip. In retaliation, Erlaan-Orlassai reached out and snatched hold of Ullsaard's wrist. The Prince flexed his muscles, nearly pulling the arm from the socket as he sent Ullsaard across the room to land in a heap against the wall beside the door. Blood pumped from a cut on the former king's brow and he grabbed hold of his injured shoulder with his other hand.

  A look of fear passed across the usurper's features, sending a thrill of excitement through Erlaan-Orlassai. He let his sword fall from his grip and raised up both fists.

  "Do you remember a promise I made to you?" asked the Prince. Ullsaard groggily shook his head. "I said I would rip you to pieces. I said I would tear off your balls and feed them to you. I think it is time I was true to my word."

  Erlaan-Orlassai took a step forward and Ullsaard held up a hand, teeth gritted. It had been disappointingly easy and the Prince did not wish for the end to be too swift. He stooped and grabbed Ullsaard's ankle, lifting him from the floor.

  "Where is your army now, Ullsaard?" Erlaan-Orlassai threw Ullsaard like a doll, sending him crashing into a cabinet. The door split under the impact and Ullsaard flopped to the floor, more blood pouring from his broken nose.

  The usurper wiped his hand across his mouth and flicked blood away from his fingers. With pained grunts, using the remnants of the cabinet as support, he pushed himself to his feet. He grinned, showing blood-flecked teeth.

  "Come on then, you big bastard," said Ullsaard, holding up shaking fists. He swayed from side to side, his face a crimson mask. "You and me, right now, Maarmes-style. I'll stop holding back if you will."

  The man's insolence even in the face of death was infuriating. With a snarl, Erlaan-Orlassai launched himself at his foe, fist poised to smash his head to a pulp.

  Ullsaard dropped and rolled at the last moment, avoiding the fatal blow. The Prince punched through plaster and stone, driving his arm through the wall up to his elbow. Erlaan-Orlassai struggled to pull his arm back, and heard laughter behind him.

  "I'll kill you!" roared the Prince, ripping a hole the size of a man's body from the wall as he wrenched his arm free. He turned to confront his foe, expecting Ullsaard to be making a bolt for safety. Instead, the former king stood in the middle of the room, feet apart, with the Prince's immense blade gripped in both hands.

  "And now I have your sword, you fucking amateur."

  A scream caused both fighters to turn.

 

Allenya screamed again, a wild, primordial sound of terror. She let the belt in her hands drop to the floor and raised her hands to her head as she shrieked again, eyes fixed on Ullsaard's attacker. Her robe had fallen open, revealing the curve of her thighs, and the patch of dark hair between them. A breast came into view as the robe slipped further, falling away from her shoulders.

  "Get out!" yelled Ullsaard, turning his attention back to Erlaan, bringing up the point of the heavy sword. "Run!"

  The twisted prince was no immediate threat though, as transfixed by Allenya's appearance as she was by his. His grotesque features were a mask of shock and Ullsaard was reminded that the monstrous warrior was barely more than a youth. The king knew he should attack now, while the Prince was distracted, but feared that if he moved he would be break the trance that had bewitched his foe. The sword Ullsaard held was too cumbersome for him to wield properly, his breath was short in his lungs and his shoulder was a knot of burning pain; his incredible opponent would finish him in moments and it had been pure bravado that had propelled the king to pick up the blade.

  "Aunt Allenya?" The words were spoken softly, almost reverentially. Just as it had the first time, hearing Erlaan's voice issue from that fanged mouth was deeply disturbing. Ullsaard remembered the boy the Prince had been. As an infant he had been fond of sitting with Allenya when she did her needlework, while she made up stories for the scenes she created with canvas and thread.

  It was if the youth's words seeped through Allenya's horror. Her expression moved back and forth between horror and confusion as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. Ullsaard had never spoken of his war with the Mekhani, not in detail, and had certainly kept Erlaan's survival as secret as possible.

  "What has happened to you, Erlaan?" Allenya's confusion resolved itself into pity. She looked at Ullsaard, her glare admonishing him as if he had somehow inflicted this fate on the Prince.

  "He attacked me," Ullsaard found himself saying in his defence, though it sounded like the excuse of a child.

  As if reminded of his purpose in coming to the villa, Erlaan looked at Ullsaard and snarled. Allenya whimpered and stepped back, causing the Prince to physically flinch. Now it was Erlaan's turn to show bewilderment as he looked between Ullsaard and his wife.

  "What are you doing here, what has happened to you?" Allenya said, recovering her composure. She pulled her robe across her body and stepped up behind Ullsaard, seeking protection.

  "I am to be king," said Erlaan. A look of anguish passed across his rune-scarred features. Golden eyes blinked quickly and then the frown returned. "It is my birthright to be king, and Ullsaard has taken it from me."

  "I spared your life," said Ullsaard. "This is how you repay me?"

  "You took me captive and shamed me," replied Erlaan. Bony fingers curled into fists and Ullsaard moved himself directly in front of Allenya, but she stepped around him.

  "You knew he was alive?" she asked.

  "Not at first," said Ullsaard, glancing at his wife for a moment before returning his gaze to the man who wanted him dead. "It's complicated."

  "I am the true heir, Ullsaard," growled Erlaan. "My grandfather and father are dead. The Crown belongs to me."

  Ullsaard narrowed his eyes as he considered his options. His head was throbbing, his ribs were sending stabs of pain into his chest and his arm was going numb. The fact that Erlaan was not battering him to death was a boon in itself but the Prince was on edge, and Ullsaard had seen the rage that could take hold of him; the wrong word could set off another wild attack.

  "You would never have become king," Ullsaard said slowly. He lowered the point of the sword to the floor, though he kept his grip as tight as he could around the thick hilt. "Nor your father before you."

  "It was my right as heir to the Blood," said Erlaan.

  "It was no right, it was a curse," said Ullsaard. He glanced at Allenya, realising what he had to say. She looked at him with a perplexed expression, making it even harder to do what had to be done. "The Crown was tainted, an artefact fashioned by Lakhyri."

  "What taint? What has Lakhyri to do with the Crown?"

  Ullsaard answered, the words coming in a stream as he unburdened himself of the terrible secret he had kept for three years. He spoke of Lakhyri and Askhos, two men seeking immortality – one in spirit, the other in body. He told them of the making of the Crown and the curse laid upon it to deliver up each generation of Askhan kings to the control of Askhos.

  "Three years ago, almost to this day, I placed the Crown upon my head and Askhos became part of me," said the king. "I did not know it then, but he tried to take me, as he would have taken your father, and as he would have taken you. You were just a vessel, of no value other than a working heart, functioning limbs and brain. Even in your altered state, that was the fate Lakhyri had in mind for you. He is using you, just as he is using Urikh."

  Ullsaard watched Allenya's reaction turn from disbelief to belief to true understanding, her expression becoming more and more alarmed as realisation crept up on her. She looked at Ullsaard with something bordering on disgust, and took a shuddering breath.

  "All of this time," she said, backing away. "Is that why you abandoned me? That is why you pushed me away?"

  "Allenya, I could not share you with him," Ullsaard said. He wanted to reach out to her, but would not let go of the sword while Erlaan was a threat.

  "These are lies, concocted by you to save your life," said Erlaan.

  "How?" snapped Ullsaard, letting the frustration of three years fuel his words. "How will these lies save me? Will they turn into a spear and shield for me? Why would I invent such madness?"

  Erlaan shook his head and looked away, rubbing an inhuman hand across his brow.

  "No, it cannot be true," said the Prince, but there was no conviction in his words. He glowered at Ullsaard but his chest was heaving, not from anger but agitation. "I must… I will find the truth. The empire will be mine."

  Erlaan ran towards the window and leapt out with a loud grunt. Ullsaard dragged himself across the room in time to see him leaping over a wall before disappearing into the darkness. The sword dropped from his fingers with a loud clatter and he fell to one knee.

  "I need a surgeon," he muttered, turning to where Allenya had been standing but he was alone in the room. It seemed somehow fitting. He closed his eyes and concentrated, but he could sense nothing of Askhos, banned from the king's conscious thoughts though still locked inside his mind somewhere. Using the sill to help, Ullsaard pulled himself up to the window and called for Houran.

  He really did need a surgeon, and quickly.

 

The frantic clanging of a gong woke Gelthius. He rolled over and sat up on his bunk, pushing away his thin blanket. Around him the other men in the prison dormitory were rousing from their slumber, groans and complaints breaking the early morning stillness. From the bed beneath Gelthius, Muuril put out his legs and pushed himself onto the bare stone floor. The lower bunk now vacated, Gelthius swung over the side of his bed and lowered himself to the ground using the edge of Muuril's cot as a step.

  The dorm housed forty men in twenty double-bunks, with barely enough room between each for the prisoners to fit. There were no windows except for a few grates in the ceiling that had been letting in light, rain and snow in roughly equal measure since Gelthius' incarceration had begun. Directly above the prison chambers was the drilling space of the barracks and occasionally a witty legionnaire would ensure an abada stood over the gap, to let a stream of pungent piss into the cell.

  It was dark through the openings, and the gong was not the wake up ring of Dawnwatch, but a more insistent, alarmed clamour. There was light from the doorway as lanterns moved past at quick intervals, carried by legionnaires mustering from the company barracks adjacent to the prison. There were a few men at the door calling out to the passers-by for information, but their shouts went unanswered.

  Knowing that it was unlikely that he would be left in peace to go to sleep again, Gelthius pulled on his kilt and tunic and fished out his sandals from the open-topped box at the end of the bed. Muuril and most of the others were also getting dressed, expecting the worse. It was not the first time Captain Lutaan had called out the companies in the middle of the night for surprise drill. Even though they were in the punishment battalion, the men of the Thirteenth and the miscreants of the Twenty-first would be expected to turn out in due course to take their place in the muster.

  Soon enough, a gaggle of blackcrests appeared at the door, shining a lamp through the narrow grille of bronze bars. More figures appeared behind them and Gelthius was struck by how many soldiers there were when the door was opened – at least twenty.

  "Stand by your bunks!"

  The order was snapped out and the men in the dorm complied, though not with the vigour and pride they would have once shown. When each pair of men was standing beside their beds, four blackcrests came in, two of them with their spears ready and shields held up, two with spears and lanterns.

  Much to Gelthius' surprise, the guards were quickly followed by Captain Lutaan. He had his sword belt on, his shield slung on his back and a spear in his right hand; Ullsaard's golden spear. There came a barely audible growl from Muuril but the sergeant said nothing out loud.

  "This is not a drill or a punishment," Lutaan said sharply. "Scouts have returned with warning that an army of Salphors is marching on Marradan. I need every man to defend the city. All of you swore oaths to fight in the legions to protect the empire. Today, despite your transgressions, I will hold you to your oaths. As laid down in the code of the legions, from the Book of Askhos, each of you has the choice to fight, earning commutation of your sentence, or you may submit to summary execution. If you agree to accept the king's pardon, you will be subject to full legion law once again and if you are found derelict in your duty or otherwise insubordinate, mutinous or cowardly you will be summarily executed. Any infraction of the legion code will be punished by death."

  "Which sort of shit do you prefer?" whispered Loordin from the bed behind Gelthius'. "Sheep shit or cow shit? It's all the same when it's on your foot."

  "Shall I accept it that all here are willing to fight?" Lutaan paused for a moment and there was silent agreement from everybody in the dormitory. "Good. You will form an ad-hoc company with the rest of the prisoners; one hundred and twenty men. Captain Caaskil will be your commander. Muuril and Gelthius will be the officers, all other rank positions to remain as before incarceration."

  With this bare statement delivered, Lutaan turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, soon replaced by the squat, broad form of Captain Caaskil, a thirty-year veteran of the legions with a hook for a right hand and more scars than Gelthius had seen on anybody. He had been the drill officer throughout their imprisonment, and Gelthius was actually pleased to be fighting under him – many of the Twenty-first's officers were untested and undertrained.