The Crown of the Conqueror

III

"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.