the legionnaire's neck in a gush of arterial blood. The general waded into his assassins, using his sword to parry thrusting spears, his own finding limbs and guts and faces with each lunging blow.
Even wounded, the traitors tried to fight on, impervious to grievous injuries that would kill a normal man. One by one, they were slain by Ullsaard and those who came to his rescue; one by one, that golden light in their eyes dimmed and disappeared.
When the last of them was dead, Ullsaard tossed aside his spear and ran to Noran's side. Crouching down, he saw his friend's tunic soaked with blood from neck to knee and the ground was red beneath him.
'I'm sorry,' Noran said weakly, flapping at Ullsaard with a blood-slicked hand.
'No apologies,' growled Ullsaard. 'Save your strength.'
Ullsaard's eyes quickly took in the injuries: a wound in the leg, three in the gut, one in the chest and two in Noran's left shoulder. It was a marvel that Noran was still conscious. Ullsaard gripped his friend's hand tightly, feeling the blood oozing between his fingers. Noran's eyelids were drooping and his breath hissed through his teeth in shallow gasps.
'Stay with me,' said Ullsaard, putting a hand behind Noran's head and lifting him up. 'Who else is going to keep Meliu happy while I'm away?'
Noran's eyes flickered wide. His words came in halting gasps.
'You know about that?'
Ullsaard grinned.
'Luia had you stitched up like a legionnaire's sack, but I wouldn't have any of it.'
'I… I didn't…'
'Yes, you did, but I forgive you.' Ullsaard looked over his shoulder at the legionnaires gathering around. 'Fuck off, the lot of you. And fetch the surgeons.'
With a grunt, Ullsaard hefted Noran into his arms and straightened.
'Never thought such a streak of piss could weigh so much,' he said. Noran hung an arm limply over the general's shoulder. Ullsaard felt blood trickling down his back. He bowed his head to speak softly into his friend's ear. 'I didn't mean to take your wife either, but I did. If you want her, Meliu is yours.'
He got no reply as he carried Noran into the pavilion.
VII
Ullsaard looked at the blanket-swathed body of his friend. His skin was drawn and waxy, his eyes closed, his hair matted. His pale flesh had a yellowish pallor and there was no movement at all.
'Will he live?' the general asked.
The man with drooping moustaches, sitting beside Noran, pursed his lips in a way that Ullsaard knew was the surgeon's equivalent of a shrug.
'Injuries like that, it might be better if he doesn't,' said the surgeon, Luuarit. 'He has lost a lot of blood and there's going to be damage to his organs.'
'If he was a legionnaire, we'd have slit his throat already, put him out of his misery,' added Anasind from behind the general. Ullsaard rounded on the First Captain, fists balled. 'I meant no disrespect!'
'He isn't a legionnaire,' Ullsaard growled. He turned his glare onto Luuarit. 'You will keep him alive, whatever you have to do.'
The surgeon nodded thoughtfully, but there was doubt in his eyes.
'You have a larger problem to worry about, General,' said Anasind. 'The army is on the verge of collapse. I have them assembled outside the camp waiting for your address. Whatever you say to them, it'd better be good. We've had three hundred desertions since the episode of last night, from companies not returning after forage duty.'
Ullsaard stalked out of the pavilion to where a legionnaire was waiting with Blackfang. The ailur seemed as surly as her master, tossing her head in irritation as Ullsaard mounted and rode slowly towards the gate camps.
Outside, the three legions were drawn up in their companies, eyes expectantly following their general as he rode to a spot on a slight rise so all could see him. More than fifteen thousand pairs of eyes looked at Ullsaard, a mixture of hope and desperation, ambivalence and accusation.
The general cleared his throat and cast his gaze across rows upon rows of soldiers.
'You have given me more than I would ever have asked for,' he said, pitching his voice to the farthest ranks. 'From the sands of Mekha to this treacherous snow, you have followed me; out of respect for my rank; out of loyalty to me; some of you even think my claim is right.'
There were scattered chuckles to this poor joke, mainly from the Thirteenth.
'You have done more than I have ever asked for and so I cannot ask for more than you have already given. It is my turn to give. You are my legions, and each of you receives his pay and has his pension, as you have earned. That is not enough reward for such fighting men. You have stayed with me against the wishes of your king. I have lost comrades I loved dearly and so have you. What price could be put on such lives? What reward is worthy of such sacrifice?'
Ullsaard allowed his words to sink in as he considered what he was about to say. In the last year he had thought he had crossed every line he could cross, bartered away every principle he believed in for the greater goal he sought.
He had been wrong.
He had betrayed and killed those he had called allies, even friends. He had bargained away a whole city to Anglhan in return for the support he needed. He had turned on his king, a man he now knew to be his father, and pretty much ordered his half-brother killed. He had raised his spear against his fellow legions and he had spilt the blood of Askhans. All of that he could stomach because they were necessary for the wider endeavour; sacrifices on the road to a greater empire and a stronger Askhor.
None of it counted for anything if he was to fail now; his claim for the Crown would be nothing but a vain venture, an exercise in pride, if he was to falter in his dedication. He had one hand on the Crown; he could feel it in his bones. All he had to do was pry the aging fingertips of his father from it and Ullsaard would be proven right. As king, he would make the dream of Askhos a reality.
He remembered a stone, somewhere in hotwards Nalanor, inscribed with the rune of the Crown. He had made a vow that Greater Askhor would spread from sea to sea, as Askhos had promised. The empire was larger than any man; or any city. For generations Askh had been the empire and the empire had been Askh. Ullsaard saw now that his allegiance to the city and the king that ruled from there had been blind obedience. He had believed in the myths: Askh was the start and end of the empire. No more.
'In the spring we will march on the city of the king,' Ullsaard announced. 'I want you to march with me. We are all citizens of the empire, and in forging a new empire it is only right that you take your dues. When the city falls to us, we will be the masters of Greater Askhor. To us will come the responsibilities, but also the rewards.
'I have the right to grant my legions the privilege of sacking conquered territories. For years I have been forced to throw you the scraps left behind by others, filling your purses with the dust and sand of Mekha. I offer you something no other man can. In the spring, I shall become king; my legions will get the riches of the capital. The city will be yours, by right of conquest, to take what you have earned through sweat and blood.
'You, the legions of Ullsaard, have my permission to sack Askh.'
The reaction was muted at first, the army unable to comprehend what they were being offered. Wiser soldiers made the point clearer: the legions would be allowed to plunder and rape their way through the richest city in the world. Even split amongst the many thousands in the legions, such a prize would make them wealthy beyond anything they could imagine.
As realisation spread, the cheers began. Legion mottos were shouted into the air, but soon all voices turned to chanting Ullsaard's name, over and over, the air split by the thunderous cries. Ullsaard took the ovation impassively. His name ringing in his ears, he turned Blackfang around and rode away from his army.
Ullsaard would have the Crown. The disgust churning his stomach was just another part of the price to pay.
