he was the king. Ullsaard nodded dumbly and waved for the scout to set off. The First Captain and king followed a little way behind, and then came the bodyguard, marching mutely, their questions and gossip silenced by the stares of their officers and the mood of their commanders.
The flash of metal sparkled far off at the bottom of the hill. The long grass that covered the slope had been flattened by the tread of many feet. It was clear that most of the legion had left the camp by this route, marching down the hill. They followed the trail for some time, until Ullsaard noticed a change. The trampling of the grass spread out. He called the scout to a halt for a moment and pointed out his discovery to Anasind.
'They formed line,' said the First Captain. He paced away to the left, measuring each stride. At a hundred paces he turned and called back. 'Looks like they were in formation, drawn up for battle.'
'But no fighting here,' Ullsaard muttered. There was some litter still around; mouldy apple cores, a few bits of bone, broken sandal buckles. All of the things that would have been left behind after a break in a march. But there was no blood, no bodies.
'Over here!'
Ullsaard turned at Anasind's shout. The First Captain was further down the slope. He held up what looked like a stout stave banded with bronze. It took a moment for Ullsaard to register what it was: the broken shaft of a legion icon.
Knowing that Jutaar would give his life rather than let the legion icon be taken, Ullsaard broke into a run, almost tripping over as he sprinted down to the level plain where Anasind stood.
The corpses were easy to see now. Clouds of flies hovered over them, their black bodies crawling across red cloth and bronze armour. The bodies were piled together, marked by wounds and the attention of scavengers. Ullsaard ran past them, paying no heed to the story they could tell. Scavenging birds hopped lazily away, gorged by the feast, their featherless faces slick with blood.
In his wake, the other legionnaires broke ranks, walking amongst the dead in amazement. Some — the most experienced — wasted little time on wonder and grief; they began to pull belts free, hooked off sandals and searched pouches for food. Ignoring the cloying clouds of insects, with knife tips they loosened spearheads from broken shafts and cut armour straps to free breastplates. Soon, the whole bodyguard were committed to the grim task; the officers organised their men into parties to pile shields and spears, collect water canteens and begin the gruesome job of bringing the bodies to one place so that they could be properly cremated.
Oblivious to the looting behind him, Ullsaard slowed to a stop beside Anasind.
'Where is he?' the king demanded. 'Have you found him?'
'Over there.' Anasind jerked his head to the left, eyes downcast, unable to meet Ullsaard's gaze.
The king took a few steps, scouring the haphazard corpses for Jutaar. He stopped in stunned recognition as his gaze fell upon his son's mutilated remains. Had it not been for the First Captain's insignia on the battered helm he might have missed him altogether. Ullsaard knelt down, pulling the helmet free, part of him still believing that the man wearing it was not his son.
The dried blood was almost black and maggots crawled in the many wounds inflicted upon Jutaar. His eyes were missing — probably taken by birds — and his skin writhed with larvae and beetles. Ullsaard could not bring himself to touch this disgusting thing, his hand held just above Jutaar's chest.
Shadow enveloped him as Anasind came up from behind.
'He died fighting,' said the First Captain.
For a moment Ullsaard felt a burning rage. The mangled remains of his son were a horror he had hoped never to see. He was about to turn his anger on Anasind when the words sunk home. Those three words were a tribute; perhaps the finest any legionnaire could make of another man.
He died fighting.
'His sword has gone,' the king mumbled.
With a ring of bronze, Anasind drew his weapon. He stepped past Ullsaard and crouched to place the hilt in Jutaar's dead grip.
'Now he has one again,' said the First Captain.
Ullsaard slumped back, arms limp by his sides. It did not matter what had happened. Answers would come later. For the moment, all that filled Ullsaard was the certain knowledge that his son was dead. Anger melted into the bloodstained grass and was replaced by tears. Head bowed, the king sobbed, while Anasind stood beside him, watching over father and son.
V
Furlthia wanted to turn around the cart and head back into the wilds. Never before had he felt so scared. Even when he had been caught up in the madness with the rebels, and watched the fires spreading across Magilnada, he had felt safer than now.
The Askhan army stretched across the hills for half a mile to either side of the road; right flank anchored against the river, left flank secured by the still smoking ruins of a Salphorian settlement. Perhaps it was Furlthia's knowledge of why they were here that gave the blocks of legionnaires a vengeful air. The thousands of Salphors driven back to Magilnada were a sure sign that King Ullsaard was very unhappy with the current course of events. Tales of the Askhans' brutality had been brought along by the lines of ragged women and children, spread by the warnings of terrified old men, carried from the fighting like the refugees' packs and handcarts.
He was well aware of the strange sight he must present, emerging from the line of Magilnadan legionnaires and Salphorian tribesmen on his small, lupus-drawn wagon like a peddler who had lost his way. The lupus itself, a larger black-furred cousin to the wolves of the Altes Hills, was unknown in Greater Askhor; a gift from Aegenuis.
A mile separated the two armies, a short enough distance in itself, but the journey from one side to the other seemed to take forever and Furlthia's skin crawled with nervousness the whole way.
Ahead, Askhan companies drilled and shifted, as adjustments were made to the line. Squadrons of soldiers on kolubrids passed back and forth in front of the phalanxes, the shimmering bodies of the serpentine creatures catching the morning sun. At the heart of the Askhan line Furlthia thought he could see a small group of officers gathered beneath a shining icon, one of them mounted on an ailur. His gut clenched and his sphincter tightened at the thought of approaching the Askhan king. He patted the letter inside his jerkin and whispered an entreaty to the spirits that Anglhan knew what he was doing.
When he was halfway across, Furlthia noticed several of the skirmishers redirecting their steeds in his direction. They closed in fast, ten of them, hefting heavy bellows bows to their shoulders, bronze arrowheads pointed at his wagon.
He pulled back on the harness and called the panting lupus to a halt. The beast settled to its haunches, a growl in its throat as it watched the circling kolubrids with slitted eyes, its ears folded back. The kolubrids hissed and swayed their heads, their riders hauling tight on their reins to keep their distance a few dozen paces away.
'Are you lost?' one of the riders called out.
'I bear a message for King Ullsaard.' Furlthia's declaration was greeted with harsh laughter. He held up a hand to shade his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting back from the speaker's helm. The man's face was heavily tanned, creased with age, his eyes alive with amusement.
'I don't think the king is welcoming visitors just at this moment,' the man said, affecting a cultured accent. 'Perhaps if you made an appointment you would have more luck.'
'The message is from Governor Anglhan.'
The humour fell away like a dropped stone, replaced with such an air of hostility that Furlthia's stomach turned another somersault.
'Nobody cares what that treacherous cunt has to say. Best turn around now, you dog-fucker, before we send you back to your master with a bit more bronze to decorate your guts.'
Furlthia dearly wanted to comply, but he knew that he had to deliver the letter. He tried a different approach.
'Anglhan isn't my master. I think he's just as much a cockloving traitor as you do. I'm just doing a job. Please, the king has to read this letter.'
The scout's sergeant urged his mount closer and leant forward, eyes burrowing into Furlthia. The kolubrid and lupus eyed each other with similarly deadly intent.
'What's the message? We'll pass it on.'
