From the foredeck a large shape ambled towards Anglhan. It was Pak'ka, one of the Nemurians. He stood half as tall again as Anglhan, and almost as broad. He was covered with thick grey scales, darkening to black around his flat face and surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hands. His back and shoulders were patterned with pale orange stripes that faded away halfway down his knobbly spine. His loins were concealed behind a heavy skirt of studded leather, split at the back to allow his tail to move freely; the appendage was adorned with silver bands and ended in a knobbly club-like growth that thumped. The Nemurian's green eyes caught the sun with a flash as he bent down in front of Anglhan. Pak'ka's slit-like nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath.
"Nothing to report." Like all of his kind, Pak'ka spoke in with a slight lisp. His voice was quiet and measured.
"Let's hope it stays that way," said Anglhan. Pak'ka's cracked lips wrinkled back to reveal two rows of small, flat teeth in an attempt at a smile.
"We hope, but the rocks are unhappy," said Pak'ka. With this baffling proclamation, the Nemurian turned heavily and rejoined his warriors basking in the sun by the starboard rail.
The lookouts and guards were a necessary precaution these days, with the number of brigands and escaped slaves hiding out in the Altes Hills growing every year. Anglhan had heard tales from fellow debt guardians, of outlaws growing bolder and more organised with each passing season. Three landships had been lost since the turn of the growing season and Anglhan was not prepared to take any chances; he had brought on the Nemurian mercenaries and doubled his outunners for this long voyage to the coast.
"Dusk or dawn," said Furlthia.
"What's that?" said Anglhan, turning his attention back to the first mate.
"Raiders usually strike at dusk or dawn, out of the sun," said Furlthia.
"The king should send an army into the hills and clear them out," said Anglhan with a shake of the head. "I pay tithes for safe roads and freedom to trade."
"It's a brave king who sends an army into the Altes," countered Furlthia. "The expense and risk doesn't match up to the complaints of a few caravan masters and landship captains."
"The Askhans would do it," Anglhan said as he turned towards the quarterdeck, running his experienced gaze across the ropes and beams of the landship's workings. The road was rutted and the whole vessel sagged and swayed as it rumbled along the uneven stones. Despite the movement the mast and braces were sound, the wood and ropes creaking softly.
"You'd want the Askhans here, wouldn't you?" said Furlthia. "You wouldn't keep Aegenuis on the throne for a moment, given the choice."
"It's nothing against the man personally, it's a matter of trade, is all," explained Anglhan as he mounted the steps up to the quarterdeck. "In fact, if we became a protectorate there's no reason he couldn't stay on in some capacity. I've travelled a bit in Ersua and never seen trouble. Good prices too; their economy is far more stable. They don't have a king who fritters away half a year's taxes on statues, for a start."
"The tribal chiefs would never stand for it," said Furlthia. "You want to be ruled from Askh, foreigners making decisions? Not me and not them. If the Askhans do come here next, I'll be leaving you and joining the army."
"Then you'll be dead," snapped Anglhan as he took up his position in the shade of the broad sail. "Nobody fights Askhor and wins."
The captain's expression softened.
"Anyway, I'd miss you," he said. "Good mates are hard to come by and I would not see a friend march off on a hopeless cause."
"You think the Askhans would allow you to keep your trade?" Furlthia persisted. "They don't have slavery, you know. Not of their own people."
"Neither do I," said Anglhan. "I've told you before. Don't get squeamish about it. These men work off their debts. They earn money. Okay, so it all goes to me, but that's not the same as the field serfs or the slaves in the Labroghia mines, is it? They knew the risks when they got into debt."
"Do you think the Askhans will see it that way?"
"Like I said, I've never had any problems when I've been there, debtors and all," said Anglhan. "Of Askhor and Salphoria, which has rebels hiding out in the hills attacking people, eh? I tell you, it won't be more than a season or two before some clever bastard gets them organised and attacks Magilnada, and I don't see the garrison holding out until the king decides to do something about it. Say this about the Askhans, they're brutal but they get the job done.
"It's the Crown of the Blood, you see, and that book of theirs. They know what they want to do and just do it. King Aegenuis, on the other hand, has overturned half the things his father brought in, and no doubt that halfwit son of his, Medorian, will do the same again when he finally knifes his father in the back and takes over. Stability, Furlthia, stability."
The mate said nothing and turned away to look over the starboard side of the landship. The purple hills of the Altes rose higher and higher to duskwards, the sun settling down behind them. Night would come quickly.
"We best rotate the watch," Furlthia said.
"Aye, do that for me," said his captain, casting another wary glance across the hills. "I'll be in my cabin."
Askh
Midsummer, 208th Year of Askh
I
Blackfang padded back and forth, mirroring her master's growing impatience. The city walls were but a stone's throw away and the general sat atop his ailur, glaring venomously at the blue-garbed official standing in front of him. Erlaan whistled quietly beside them, occasionally patting the mane of his mount.
"What's the delay?" snapped Ullsaard. The official shook his head solemnly.
"I do not know, General." He turned back to the gatehouse where the signal was to be flown. He gave a deep sigh of relief when a black and red flag fluttered from the tower. "They are ready!"
"About time," growled Ullsaard, flicking the reins. Erlaan took his place beside the general.
A roll of drums echoed from the walls and a solitary horn sounded, alerting the city to the return of their prince. Ullsaard's heart quickened as the noise of the crowd reverberated through the open gate. The pair rode into the shadow of the gatehouse as the noise swelled. A company of a hundred legionnaires broke into a march, keeping twenty paces ahead of the returning heroes.
Coming through the gatehouse, Ullsaard and Erlaan were bathed by the setting sun. It glinted from their armour and helms, from the masks of the ailurs and the tips of their spears. To either side the crowd erupted into a roar. Ullsaard saw a sea of faces; men and women, old and young, merchant and soldier, all with eyes bright and mouths open. Young girls naked but for red cloaks skipped ahead of the parade, scattering offerings of salt and grain onto the road. Garlands were cast from the crowd, showering Ullsaard and the prince with leaves and petals.
The general held up his spear in a salute and the noise became deafening. Lines of legionnaires shouted warnings and pushed back the mob as the people of Askh surged forwards to see their betters. A buxom woman broke from the mass, ducking beneath the cudgel of a soldier to grasp at Erlaan's leg. She reached up and stroked a loving hand inside his thigh. Her words were lost in the din and a moment later she was dragged away and pushed back into the throng.
The prince leaned towards Ullsaard, his voice raised to a shout to be heard.
"Shame we don't have a few Mekhani to show off. That would drive them wild."