The Crown of the Conqueror

II

The appearance of Maalus silenced the chattering in the king's pavilion. The gaggle of captains and commanders that made up Ullsaard's war council parted in front of the arrival, horror on the faces of a few, pity on the faces of others. The self-appointed general was supported between two Second Captains, thick bandages beneath his breastplate, his right leg ending in a bloodstained, swaddled stump just above the knee. The men carrying him were no better off, one with an arm in the sling, the other with a long cut across his cheek, his helmet scored by the same blow. Anasind was first to his feet, gesturing for the men to carry the commander to the vacated chair. Nobody said a word as Maalus hobbled across the stained rugs, wincing with every movement.

Since receiving news of Maalus's defeat, Ullsaard had expected the worst, but to see the man himself so badly injured brought home the disaster that had happened. The king poured wine for the nobleman and took it to him. Maalus took a grateful mouthful and sat back, waving away his orderlies. The two captains retreated to the door with bows and concerned looks.

"How many left?" said Ullsaard, getting to the point.

"Three hundred, maybe three-fifty," said Maalus. "I do not know how many escaped the rout, but I would not expect to see them again."

"The messenger said you were attacked by a tribal coalition," said Anasind. "What happened?"

Maalus took another drink.

"Lukha's dead, his legion destroyed as well," he told them. "Scouts reported a Salphorian army, maybe two thousand strong, twenty miles duskwards of where we were camped. I sent word to Lukha, and we combined our legions for the attack. It should have been easy. Such a small force of barbarians against two legions? Just the sort of fight you told us to pick. About six or seven thousand more Salphors had moved through the forests coldwards of Lukha's camp. They came in behind us the day before we were going to attack. Our only chance was to break through the small army and head duskwards into the wilds."

Maalus bowed his head and stared into his cup, lips tightly pursed. He did not look at any of the other men as he continued.

"Seems the scouts were wrong there, too. Not two thousand, but four thousand. They had dug ditches in the fields and fortified the farms. Lots of bows, thousands of them. Savage hound packs, chariots drawn by shaggy creatures I've never seen before. There was no way we could fight. Lukha and I agreed to split. He went to duskwards and hotwards, I went dawnwards. We thought that one of us might get away with our legion intact, maybe mount some kind of rearguard. I think the Nemurians decided to stay to make a fight of it. I hope they killed plenty of those Salphor boy-whores."

"But that didn't work," said Ullsaard, returning to his campaign throne. He snapped his fingers. "Two legions lost, just like that."

"Probably three," sighed Maalus. "The Fourteenth were on our coldwards flank, about another two days' march away. I sent Canaasin word of what we were planning to do, but there was no time to despatch a warning when it went wrong. I would not count the Fourteenth in any of your plans."

"Fuck!" Ullsaard's goblet flew across the pavilion, clanging into one of the carved poles holding up the roof. "Fuck and shit. The Salphors must have been mustering all spring to mount such an attack; and just now, when supplies are so low. It seems too convenient for this to be happenstance."

"You think that the Salphors have something to do with the supply caravans being waylaid?" said Aklaan, First Captain of the Third Legion. "We have the Magilnadan legions protecting the roads, how could that be possible?"

"It doesn't matter, not for the moment," said Ullsaard. "Whatever the reason, we can't carry on like this. The enemy have managed to gather their strength, to coldwards at least, but probably elsewhere. Too strong for the legions to take on individually. Something or someone is cutting off our supplies. If word gets out, and it will, those tribes behind us that we've got under control at the moment are going to start making trouble."

"So, what do we do?" asked Ullasand, another noble-turnedgeneral who had joined the campaign only that spring. "I've emptied the family coffers to fund my legion. You can't call off the advance now, not with everything I've invested."

"Look at him!" snapped Ullsaard, pointing at Maalus. "He's lost a fucking leg, and you're worried about the return on your investment? If we press on now, the only coins you'll be counting are the ones your widow puts in your grave urn."

"I can't keep paying for my legion just to stand around with their thumbs up their arses," said Ullasand. "You promised us conquest; so far I've had eighty days of shuffling my legion around and making camps while roads and bridges get built."

"The empire wasn't built in a day," Anasind said quietly.

"We fortify," said Ullsaard. He looked hard at Ullasand. "The further we advance without sure supplies, the further we stick our necks out. I'll take the Thirteenth, Fifth and Twentieth back dawnwards to find out what's happening to the caravans. If it comes to it, I'll bloody escort the meat and grain through myself. Send word to the other legions to invest for an extended encampment, no legion more than ten miles from another. We'll have to give ground for the moment, but it's better that than lose everything."

"And then?" asked Maalus. "These bastards took my leg; please tell me I get to kill some of them."

"Once every legion is safely back to quarters, we'll have to assess their strengths, maybe combine a few of them. Then we organise into two forces. The first is heading directly for Carantathi. The sooner we have Aegenuis's head on a spear, the quicker the tribes will fall apart. The second will follow behind, mopping up any tribes that were missed by the first army."

"When?" said Ullasand. "It's almost new year already, half the summer wasted."

"It's sixty days to Magilnada and back," said Anasind. "Judging from earlier in the year that should still give us more than eighty days of good campaigning weather in these parts."

"We'll carry on into winter if we have to," said Ullsaard. "It'll be a bitch, but it'll be worse for the Salphors than us. Next time we won't give them the space to lick their wounds."

The talk carried on past Midwatch, into the early hours of the morning. Orders were drawn up for every remaining legion in Salphoria, logistics were arranged to pool the meagre resources, and the positions of the defensive line were agreed.

Ullsaard was exhausted by the time his head hit the pillow of his cot. Still dressed in his armour, he was instantly asleep.