by Leo Carew
“Lord King,” said Roper in Saxon, for this could only be Gogmagoc. “We have come to negotiate.”
At Roper’s words, the giant’s face lost all trace of beauty. He gave a smile of horrifying breadth, revealing a black mountain range of broken teeth and some underlying insanity in the features. The creature began a growling, breathless rumble, and Roper’s heart sank. It was no language he had heard before.
Then he recognised a word, and realised his mistake. The giant was speaking Saxon, but in a drowning gurgle of a voice that rendered the words near unrecognisable. “The horse-riders,” he said. “Foolish, dead little Suthern men.”
Tekoa replied first. “Don’t ever call me Suthern again,” he said with distaste. “We are Anakim.”
“Ahh.” The creature hissed a mighty exhalation past its broken teeth. “River-People.”
“You are King Gogmagoc?” Roper asked.
“I am Gogmagoc.”
“I am the Black Lord, Roper Kynortasson,” said he. “We have come seeking an audience with you, Lord King.”
Gogmagoc looked at their captive Unhieru, then at Pryce, holding a sword beneath its chin. “This is why you threaten my son?” he asked.
Roper felt sweat break out on his palms. So that was why the Unhieru who attacked them in the cave had stopped so quickly when Pryce threatened their hostage. He was an Unhieru prince.
“We did not know he was your son,” said Roper. “He led a party that killed one of our number. We killed one in return, and took a hostage to ensure our safe conduct.”
Something strange happened then.
Roper was struck by a wave of dreadful, ravenous fear such as he had never experienced before. It ate at his chest, so potent he nearly retched. He could tell from the way some of his companions had suddenly staggered that they could feel it too, and Vigtyr actually dropped to one knee, the arrow clattering off his bowstring. Roper himself had to work hard to keep hold of Cold-Edge.
“Release him,” growled Gogmagoc, eyes boring into Pryce.
Roper turned and saw that the sprinter was reacting oddly to this overwhelming fear. Instead of going pale, like the rest of the Anakim, he had begun to tremble with some suppressed mania. “I don’t speak this stupid language,” he spat. “But I am about to cut this fat bastard’s throat.”
“No, Pryce!” Roper held up a placatory hand. The other Unhieru had begun to prowl restlessly, encircling their band but evidently not daring to act while their prince was held hostage. Roper addressed Gogmagoc once more. “My companion will release your son when you agree that we can talk and walk away when we’re finished.” Roper could barely see Gogmagoc any more. All his energy was going into keeping his voice steady over that fear. “He is a difficult man to control,” Roper continued. “If we have no assurances, I will not be able to stop him.”
“Release him,” Gogmagoc seethed. “And we will talk.”
Roper and Tekoa looked at one another. The legate was dreadfully pale. “We can still go back, my lord,” he murmured. “Use the prince as a hostage, retreat to the border. Whatever you do, do not surrender our only bargaining chip to this monster.”
“Release him,” came Gogmagoc’s voice once more.
Roper looked at the giant king and saw that a slow red flush had begun to suffuse his ashen face. “Let him go, Pryce,” said Roper. “He says we can talk.”
“My lord, no…” breathed Tekoa.
Pryce searched Roper’s face for a moment. Then he stepped back from their hostage, lowering his sword.
All at once, the horrible sense of dread that pervaded Roper’s chest lifted. It felt as though some festering abscess had been drained, and his breathing eased. He heard an audible sigh from those around him as they too were relieved, and that red flush in Gogmagoc’s face began to fade.
“Now,” said Roper, straightening up and meeting Gogmagoc’s eye once more, “we talk.”
“Do we have a plan?” hissed Vigtyr as they were led through the crowd of staring Unhieru.
“The plan is to stay calm,” said Roper, without turning around. “Don’t threaten anyone, do not be aggressive, do not touch anything, do not say anything. Don’t do anything unless I’ve told you to. Does everybody understand?” Aledas acknowledged him, and Tekoa and Vigtyr muttered something placatory.
Tekoa turned to Pryce. “Pryce, I believe that was largely directed at you. Do you understand what Lord Roper said?”
“I understand.”
“Will you obey?”
“Probably not.”
“Vigtyr: your job is to restrain Pryce if he tries anything stupid.”
“Absolutely, my lord,” said Vigtyr.
Pryce, wearing no discernible expression, met Vigtyr’s eye. Vigtyr raised his eyebrows briefly and smiled back.
Gogmagoc led the Anakim delegation first past the bramble hedges that penned their livestock, and then dozens of low drystone storehouses. At any moment, Roper expected the silent crowd to fall upon them and begin battering them with rocks, or tearing broken-nailed at their limbs. But they did nothing. There merely watched in eerie stillness as the Anakim processed right to the heart of the camp: a blazing hearth, surrounded by nests of green bracken in which more Unhieru sat watchfully. Their feral reek was enough to make Roper light-headed.
Gogmagoc sat by the fire, and was joined by several immense women who seemed to be his wives. They converged on him and began attending to his mane: skilfully unwinding the braids, extracting vertebrae and perforated shin-bones from his locks, tossing them into a clattering pile, and using notched ribs to comb at the hair. “Speak,” said Gogmagoc, gesturing a huge hand at Roper. His face was still unreadable, and Roper had no idea how long the giant king would entertain his delegation. Three of the cream-coated hounds trotted to the fireside and settled near the king, resting their heads on their paws.
“I come with a gift, Lord Gogmagoc,” Roper began, reaching into a saddlebag at his side and producing a sloshing skin of fine mead, which he held out to the giant king. Gogmagoc took the skin one-handed, removed the bung, and took a sniff. He directed a jet of the golden liquid into his mouth, squeezing fully half of it past his eroded teeth before it was passed to his wives, who shared it between them. Roper left a pause for Gogmagoc to show some appreciation, but when none appeared, he continued. “It is a sign of our good faith. I have come to propose an alliance between our two peoples.”
Gogmagoc made an impatient hand gesture. Well?
“The deal we offer is this. Very soon, we will take Suthdal. We would like you to fight with us. If you help, we promise you the return of your ancestral lands, stolen from you by the Sutherners.”
Gogmagoc had lost interest. He was staring at something over Roper’s head, and made another hand gesture, accompanied by some choked Unhieru words. Roper turned and saw two of their lost horses—his own and Pryce’s—led into the clearing. They were bucking and snorting, eyes wide and white as they leaned back from the huge hands pulling at their bridles. Behind them came the Unhieru prince whom Pryce had threatened: Gogmagoc’s son, carrying a log.
Without flourish or particular effort, the Unhieru raised the log above his head, and brought it crashing down on the neck of Pryce’s horse. There was a loud pop and the animal crumpled at once. There was shocking strength and brutality in that swift motion, and the surviving horse began to scream in terror. Pryce started forward, swearing at the Unhieru, but had his arm caught by Vigtyr. “Get off me, you prick!” Pryce snarled, trying to shake his arm free, but Vigtyr seized his shoulder and enfolded him in a bear hug. Roper’s horse succumbed a heartbeat later and small knives (which looked forged for Suthern hands) were used to bleed the carcasses. The three dogs ran over and began lapping greedily at the metallic splashes on the floor.
Aledas did not react, but Pryce and Vigtyr had gone still, both staring at the scene. Tekoa stood stiffly beside them, teeth bared, face the colour of crab-armour.
“My lord?” prompted Roper, looking at Go
gmagoc. He had shut his eyes at the noise of the horses dying, and not watched as the scene concluded.
“You want to be friends,” the king gurgled in a voice that resembled Saxon as a rotting carcass resembles healthy flesh. His gaze rested on Roper’s waist. “I want your sword.”
“My sword is not on offer.”
“I want to see,” Gogmagoc insisted.
Roper unbuckled Cold-Edge and held it out for the king’s inspection, aware of his companions’ eyes on him as he relinquished his weapon. “Built for smaller hands than yours, Lord King. But we could make weapons fit for the Unhieru.”
Gogmagoc pinched Cold-Edge’s handle between thumb and forefinger, drawing the blade carefully and casting an eye over it. “I want this,” he said. “Better than Suthern weapons.”
“That is mine,” said Roper, firmly. “But if you fight beside us, we could make weapons for every Unhieru.”
Gogmagoc did not react beyond dropping Cold-Edge on the floor, making no effort to return it. He examined Roper once more, bronze glare raking him from head to toe. “Your skin,” he said slowly. “Your metal skin. I want that.”
Roper realised the king meant his armour. He imagined Gogmagoc dressed in steel, wielding an axe that matched his proportions. He was not sure he could ever trust such a powerful ally, let alone one who carelessly murdered his followers, and stole and butchered his horses. “We will make you weapons, and in return you will help us invade Suthdal, and have your ancient lands returned. It is a good trade.”
Gogmagoc smiled, and that horrible insanity came over his face again. His countenance at rest was intelligent, but that smile was like the fracture in a mask, revealing something broken beneath. “We do not need more land. We take what we want. Your offer is boring.”
Very deliberately, Roper advanced towards Gogmagoc and bent to pick up his sword. Gogmagoc made no movement at all, letting Roper take the weapon. “What else, then?” he asked, backing away. “What would make you join us, Lord King?”
Gogmagoc was still smiling. “Fight us.”
“Fight?” said Roper, narrowing his eyes.
“Send us weapons. Send us metal skin. Now one of you fights one of us,” said the giant. “We like a contest. Win, and we are friends.”
“We are not here to fight,” said Roper.
“He is,” said Gogmagoc, and he made a throwing gesture in Pryce’s direction. The sprinter noticed, and met Gogmagoc’s eyes.
“A fight would be boring too,” said Roper mildly, trying to diffuse the sense of hostility growing between Pryce and Gogmagoc. Pryce was evidently furious about the death of Gilius and the slaughter of his horse, and Gogmagoc equally livid about the threat to his son. “You are too large, it would be over in a flash. Unless, of course, we used our swords, which would be a waste of one of your fine subjects. I propose a race. My companion here,” he gestured at Pryce, “has fearsome speed. That would be a good contest.”
Gogmagoc continued to stare at Pryce, while behind him, his wives had started braiding his mane and threading the bones back onto the locks. “Maybe,” he gurgled. “But he threatened my son. If he loses, he pays.”
“Pays, how?”
“I will kill him,” said Gogmagoc flatly. “That will make your race interesting. If he loses, he dies.”
“There is no need for that,” Roper replied, still speaking calmly. “We held your son hostage because he attacked us. It was to ensure our safety. It was no insult, merely a mark of your fearsome reputation.”
“He threatened my son,” snarled Gogmagoc, making that throwing gesture at Pryce once more. “He races. If he loses, he dies. Otherwise, talking is over.”
“What is he saying?” demanded Pryce, unable to comprehend the Saxon words but aware of the golden eyes resting heavily on his person.
“He wants a contest,” said Roper, turning to the sprinter. “I suggested a race, with you versus one of them. But he’s unhappy about us threatening his son and wants to kill you if you lose.”
Pryce shrugged. “Let’s race. I’ll outpace any one of these fat bastards.”
Roper raised a hand to indicate Pryce should slow down. “Think carefully, my friend. This is not a command. If you wish to volunteer for this, it is up to you.”
“Do we have a choice?”
Roper did not reply.
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Pryce.
Roper turned back to Gogmagoc. “We accept,” he said.
Gogmagoc slapped a flat palm on his leg, the matter settled. He leaned forward onto his feet and ambled for the horse carcasses, which had already been skinned. “Eating first. Then race.” The horses were soon spitted and steaming naked above the fire, the smell of roasting meat filling the air.
“Come,” said Roper, leading the party to the valley wall at the edge of the camp. “Over here.” He wanted them to have at least one side secure from the crowd still staring at them. The Anakim made their own fire and toasted sedge biscuits, and before long the separate crowd of Unhieru began to hack apart the barely cooked horses with crashing blows of a splitting maul which they wielded like a hatchet.
“All their tools are Suthern-made,” Tekoa observed, eyes narrowed.
“Parasites,” said Vigtyr, gazing coldly at the Unhieru. “Why work your own metal when it’s so easy to steal it from the people who do?”
“You could not teach these people to work metal,” said Pryce. “Not if you had a thousand years.”
“They’re not stupid,” said Roper. “I fear they may be far more intelligent than they have so far shown. It’s as Vigtyr said, metal is a crop for them. The Sutherners grow it, and they harvest it.
“I want to know whether anyone else felt that sense of dread, earlier,” he added. “When Gogmagoc wanted us to release his son, I suddenly felt certain I was going to die. It was like the world was coming to an end, and the sky going to fall in on top of me. I’ve never known anything like it.”
“I felt it,” said Aledas.
“I did too,” said Tekoa. “And at the same time, a couple of little stones started rattling near my feet.”
None of them knew what to make of that. “Strange,” said Roper. “I am certain that Gogmagoc induced it somehow. He made us feel that way, but how, I cannot imagine. Perhaps that is how they harvest iron from the Sutherners. They terrify them into submission. Take care in your race, Pryce. Whatever game this is, I’m not sure we’re following the same rules.”
Pryce seemed unconcerned by what rules the Unhieru might follow. “What happens after I win?” he asked.
“Then Gogmagoc will join us,” said Vigtyr, still gazing over the giants swarming the dead horses.
“Is that definitely what we want?” asked Tekoa, looking fixedly at Roper. “Undoubtedly they’d be powerful allies, but I have seen nothing in their conduct so far which leads me to believe we’d be able to campaign with them. These people are animals.”
“We need these animals,” said Roper, quietly. “They do not need to be controlled. Just unleashed. But make sure you’re taking this seriously, Pryce. Don’t underestimate them.”
But Pryce had not heard Roper, and was instead fixated on Vigtyr. Roper followed his gaze and saw Vigtyr hurriedly look away, abashed. Something strange had passed between the two men, and Roper could not tell what. He gripped Pryce by the shoulder. “Content?” he asked.
“It will be the easiest race I have ever run,” Pryce replied flatly, looking away from Vigtyr. “I won’t lose against an Unhieru.”
Gogmagoc soon prowled over to them, holding a dripping haunch of half-roasted horse by a bone that had sat exposed in the fire. It must have been baking hot, but his broad face wore no expression. “Time to race.” He opened his mouth wide and tore off a strip of horseflesh, using his molars instead of his broken, eroded front teeth.
“Where do you propose?” asked Roper, getting to his feet.
“Down the valley,” said the maned king, turning away and beginning to stride from the camp. Roper
gestured to his companions that they should follow. Gogmagoc led them out past the drystone storehouses, past the bramble hedges, which were now drained of sheep, and out of the camp. The dogs trotted at his heels, staring hungrily at the haunch of horseflesh swinging from his hand.
Just beyond the camp, where Roper had met Gogmagoc for the first time, they stopped. Before them was a rocky downhill stretch that would suffice as a track, and Gogmagoc gestured with the horse-leg. “Here.”
Pryce snorted. “This is the track? Tell the ogre to pick his fastest subject.”
“And who is to be your champion?” Roper translated tactfully, eyeing the track and thinking that its rough surface might favour the larger Unhieru stride.
For answer, Gogmagoc looked down at one of the dogs sitting obediently by his side, staring at the meat in his hand.
At first Roper did not understand. Then the true nature of this challenge dawned on him. “The hound?” he said, looking up at Gogmagoc in horror. “You said we would race one of you!”
“No,” said Gogmagoc. “I said there would be a race. And if your fast one loses, he dies.”
In spite of Gogmagoc’s vast size, and the enormous crowd that was beginning to gather around them, fury was building in Roper. “A new challenge, then,” he demanded. “You have tricked us.”
“No,” said Gogmagoc again. “No. This challenge. Or talking is over.”
This at least, Roper understood. Talking is over did not mean negotiations had concluded, and they could depart. Talking is over meant that to the Unhieru, Roper’s band would occupy the same status as the horses that had just been hacked apart, or the Sutherners on whom they preyed, or poor Gilius, when he had ventured into the cave. If talking was over, then so was everything else.
Roper turned to Pryce, not sure how he could tell the sprinter of the trap he had negotiated them into. But Pryce looked back at him calmly. “He wants me to race the dog,” he said. Though he did not speak Saxon, it seemed Pryce understood better than Roper the Unhieru language of gestures, stance and power.