by Leo Carew
12
The Great Canal
The earth was being overturned. Men sweated and swarmed over the dirt, shovels in hand, excavating great gouges in the landscape. A rattling centipede of wagons, each fair buckling beneath its load, brought mountains of clay from the north. Another carried cut stone from the west and a third tarred planks of wood from the nearby forests. Looming over all were half-finished stone towers and haughty timber cranes, depositing pallets of supplies which the men fell upon. They were stripped bare and scattered by sled. Huge boulders were tipped into the riverbed to create turbulent and unpredictable currents, making the river hard to cross in all but a few invisible locations. Tens of thousands laboured, and another dozen smaller wagon trains brought them sheep, grains, tubers, biscuits, tools, firewood and other supplies.
The Abus was being fortified and remodelled, transformed from a natural barrier into an artificially augmented one. The Great Canal.
Keturah did not like it. This felt like Suthern work. They were ordering and manipulating something wild and precious to them. It was a grotesquely vast project: a brutal exercise in terraforming that made her skin crawl. Roper had said it was necessary, though, to defend the Black Kingdom and all that was wild and healthy within it from the spread of the Sutherner. It was also, he tried to persuade her, fitting that the border between the two peoples should be a fortified river. Half Anakim, half Sutherner. She was not sure he believed that any more than she did.
She and Gray stood together atop a hill on the Black Kingdom side of the canal, watching over the work beneath them. On her return to the Hindrunn, it had been she who took command of the project, which she had found tiresomely administrative. Today would be spent briefing the armourers, the fletchers, the smiths and the quartermasters, and she fidgeted, tapping her foot and stretching restlessly.
“Guess what I can see,” said Gray, suddenly.
“Mud,” said Keturah.
“People,” said Gray, pointing at the horizon. On one of the hills south of the canal stood three horsemen. Strange horsemen, who seemed unusually massive on their steeds, watching the progress on the river. They rode over the crest of the hill, advancing for the great construction site.
“They look odd,” said Keturah.
“Two people per horse,” said Gray.
“Sutherners?” Keturah’s eyes could not discern who the riders were at this range.
“You’ll find out in a moment.” The riders were heading for a temporary log bridge which reached over the drained riverbed some way to the right of Keturah and Gray. “Shall we receive them?”
“Why not, Captain.”
They arrived at the bridge’s near edge just as the riders were passing the halfway point. The horses clattered down the logs and as the two parties met, one of the riders emitted a roar of joy and leapt from his mount. Gray ran forward and the two figures embraced. The other horsemen ignored this, riding towards Keturah, who grinned up at the figure on the lead horse.
Tekoa looked weather-beaten but in rude health: his face full of sun, his hair of wind. He waited for Aledas behind him to dismount before doing so himself, and embracing Keturah. Behind him rode Roper, who alone of the company had his own horse.
“Father,” said Keturah, beaming. “What news?”
“In brief summary, we arrived at a valley of savage barbarians minded to murder and eat us all. Through splendid individual efforts, and a smattering of inspirational leadership, we managed to secure their friendship.”
“Are you serious?”
“That is the sum of it,” said Tekoa with a curt nod.
Keturah laughed delightedly and embraced Roper, who had come to join them. “You must have some tales to tell,” she said, as they broke apart.
“That much is true,” said Roper. Gray and Pryce were approaching the rest of the group arm in arm, and warm handshakes were shared all round.
“What of Gilius?” asked Gray, looking over the company.
“Gilius gave his life for our task,” said Roper.
There was a silence. “The rest of you coming back alive is frankly more than I anticipated,” Keturah said.
“At one stage that looked improbable,” Vigtyr agreed.
“Are these Suthern horses?” Keturah asked, looking the small mounts up and down.
The five travellers exchanged glances and then laughed wildly. “There is much to tell,” said Roper. The joy at their homecoming evidently overpowered the death of one of their number.
“Then tell it,” said Keturah. “No!” she added suddenly, holding up a hand. “First, a fire, mutton and wine to fortify you for the tale. I should think you’ve earned that much.”
“And a wash, and a change of clothes,” added Tekoa.
“I could do with some pine-tea,” said Vigtyr.
“Vigtyr lost his tent, as well,” said Roper. “We must find him a new one at once.”
“Forget all other comforts,” agreed Pryce. “Just roll him in a bolt of canvas.”
“Canvas and tea for Vigtyr,” summarised Tekoa, before turning to the Skiritai. “Aledas, what will you have? A baby to feast on?”
Keturah and Roper led the group away from the canal and towards their own hearth. It was Eapea, the week of robin song, and a trio of the birds flitted after the group as Keturah demanded wood, water, wine and meat from an aide. “We already have tea,” she said, smiling at Vigtyr. “And I’m sure we can reward you with a new tent, Lictor. Especially as your woman is here,” she added with a lascivious wink. Vigtyr merely looked uncomfortable in response. Lately he had been seen spending much of his time with a female companion. Rumours abounded that he was courting her, which would be Vigtyr’s fourth wife, in a land where a single divorce was a scandal.
“You are back just in time, my friends,” said Gray. “That bridge you crossed is the first of a dozen being built over the next few days to carry us south. We’re ready to invade as soon as you are.”
“It seems you have some tales of your own,” said Vigtyr.
“None so significant as that,” said Keturah. “We have been preparing for days.” She spoke coolly, leading them down an open corridor composed of bundled arrows, stacked to twelve feet on either side. “The full strength of the Black Kingdom is ready to be unleashed on the south.” They turned into a new corridor made of bulging barrels that reeked of tar, rearing high above and far ahead. “As soon as the Black Lord gives the order, we will march.” They emerged from the corridor and onto a grass plain, spread with thousands of campfires, a great fog of smoke rising above it. Men and women swarmed before them, wood splintered and cracked, and distant metalwork clanged. Charcoal smouldered beneath volcanic mounds, and teams of oxen dragged great limbed trees to men waiting, saws in hand, atop inches of sawdust. The scene was backed by a distant wall of hobbled horseflesh, their noses pressed to the ground and stripping the grass.
Roper broke into a trot to draw level with Keturah. “We will be ready to march?” he asked, smiling faintly. “You are staying to command the Black Kingdom in my absence, remember?”
She returned his smile. “I must be blunt, Husband, the prospect of remaining in the Hindrunn while you plunder Suthdal bores me.”
“It is an honour,” said Roper, eyebrows raised. He glanced behind to check the others were out of earshot. “And you were to manage the reaction of the Hindrunn in my absence, remember? All those who will be discontented when they discover that this is to be an occupation and not a raid. You do not want for opinions on how things might best be done and now is your chance to exercise them.”
“One of the reasons I’d rather not stay, actually,” said Keturah. “Can you imagine the uproar when word gets back of what you’re doing? This task you are undertaking is bigger than one man. We are to do this together. I have been researching in the Academy, as I said I would. I have come up with a strategy to subdue Suthdal. You shall need me, Husband.”
“While your advice would be welcome, you’re also pre
gnant, as much as you try to pretend you aren’t.” Keturah’s hand flew to the small bulge at her stomach. “You need the security of the Hindrunn and the experience of the midwives there for your first birth. What alternative would you propose?”
“That I come south with you,” she said. “I have already spoken to the Chief Historian about it. She says I could campaign as her assistant. Making history, instead of just learning it. Exploring a new land and a new people. And assisting you.”
Gray drew level with the pair of them, evidently coming to offer reinforcements. Roper glanced at him before continuing. “So you want to see the campaign.”
“Of course I do. I am no happier being left at home than you would be.”
Roper nodded a little at that. After a pause he replied. “You have often said to me that we are a partnership. I have come to rely on it. Who should rule the Hindrunn in your absence?”
Keturah wore an irritable frown, not having anticipated this point. “Being a partnership does not mean I take care of the mess you leave behind. There are many others who know the bureaucracy and organisation of the Hindrunn far better than I. Someone who sits in regularly on council meetings and wouldn’t spend the first four months just learning their duties. I am still very young. I have a great deal of experience to acquire before I can be placed in charge of the Black Kingdom, as I have learned over the past few weeks.”
Roper laughed in earnest at that. “I have never heard you speak so humbly, Wife! You are usually quite certain of your ability to resolve any situation.”
“It is wise, though,” said Gray, and Keturah beamed at his intervention.
“Just strange that this wisdom first presents itself now that the opportunity to come south has arisen,” said Roper, amused. “This will be a long campaign. What are you to do when it is time to give birth?”
“Head north again,” said Keturah. “I will not bear a child in alien lands. But I wish to come south. I will not be left behind with the old and the crippled.”
“And the pregnant,” said Roper.
She tutted. “I’m not going to be joining in the battle-line, Husband,” she said acidly.
Roper looked at Gray. “We should leave behind Skallagrim with his legion,” said the guardsman. “He’d be more disruptive than most at discovering the true nature of the campaign, and he’d make a good peacetime ruler.”
“There,” said Keturah, flashing Gray a mischievous look behind Roper. “It is settled.”
“I see you have discussed this already,” said Roper, facing forward again, with irritation and amusement taking his face at turns. “I find myself outflanked and betrayed.”
Keturah laughed and took Roper’s unwilling arm. “You’ll be glad to have me there, Husband,” she said sweetly.
“Which other legates can I rely on?” Roper asked.
“All of them except Tore, lord,” said Gray. “He would rally any who were uncertain, and attempt to catalyse resistance to the invasion.” Tore had been a member of Uvoren’s power-bloc and remained rebellious to Roper’s command. After his actions at the Battle of Harstathur, however, when he had disobeyed Roper and taken Uvoren’s orders instead, Roper had demoted him to lead the Soay Legion: an auxiliary force with much less prestige than his previous command, the Greyhazel.
“We will leave him and Skallagrim, then,” said Roper. “There must be no reluctance in the force we take.”
They reached the fire, and while the others busied themselves preparing mutton, building up the flames with spiny oak and fetching wine, Roper rotated on the spot, a slow grin taking his face as he observed the preparations.
Keturah rose to fetch water and Roper said he would come and help, falling into step beside her. “So tell me, Wife,” he said. “What strategy have you come up with? How are we to rule over a nation of millions with seventy thousand?”
“Sixty thousand,” she said, looking at him wryly, “with the two legions you’re leaving behind. But I think partly we were considering this problem the wrong way. We were imagining a nation of people equivalent to our own. But my first discovery in the Academy was how disconnected the Sutherners are. Most of them just mind their own business. They tend to their own farms and flocks and trades, and are not unified by the same education and the same purpose that we are. So if we can defeat their army and their defences with the legions largely intact, ruling over them may not be impossible. It will be a confidence trick. They must be persuaded that if they accept us, life will go on. If they resist us, all hell will break loose.”
“So how?”
Keturah pursed her lips for a moment. “Ruthlessness,” she said finally. “If any town or city resists us, they must be utterly destroyed. The Sutherners will come to realise that resistance is not only futile, but much, much more trouble than it is worth. There are many analogous campaigns and it is effective. It will save thousands of our legionaries.”
Roper let out a slow breath. “So any city that resists… and there will be many, at first. We are to kill them all?”
“I suppose so,” said Keturah. “We are operating on a knife-edge. Lose even a small fraction of our warriors with each assault, and we will be a skeleton force by the time we reach Lundenceaster. It will be over for us. But if we can persuade the Sutherners not to resist at all, then we not only save our own soldiers but many of theirs as well. But the cities must be destroyed whether the people within survive or not. We can leave no centre where they could gather resistance.”
“Mass executions,” said Roper, bleakly. He thought of Bellamus, his great enemy from the previous campaign, and how he had found that he unexpectedly liked the spymaster on their few encounters. He thought of the babbling Suthern farmer who had directed them on their journey and had his head struck off by Pryce for his trouble.
“Have we not decided that we must do this?” asked Keturah. “If we attempt it with techniques that we know will likely fail, it is cowardice as surely as it would be not to attempt it at all. Both are slow forms of suicide. This is our only way, Husband. We must let terror do our fighting for us. We will meet the Unhieru in the middle and carve Suthdal apart together. We will never face the threat of invasion again. We will put open sea between us and the Sutherners and return this entire island to the order of the wild. And to do that? Yes, many will die. Did you think it would be any other way?”
13
Into Suthdal
They were ready.
The legions formed up and the great river slid past, each man staring over its glistening volume to the rolling green beyond. The legates rode in front of them, flecking their soldiers with a wand made from holly leaves woven into an eye and dipped in birch sap. They called upon Almighty protection against the polluted lands into which they were about to set foot. Together the thousands knelt and prayed, and when they rose they began to sing.
Before them went the cavalry.
A thundering horde of hot, dusty flesh, rushing over the bridges and into the hills of Suthdal. The earth rumbled to the thump of their hooves and gobbets of mud leapt up behind as their path was churned dark. They spread out like a malignant vapour and descended on the landscape.
Next went the Skiritai, armed in light flexible plate and each carrying two short-swords and a bow as weaponry. Behind was the Black Lord, a cloak of lightning-riddled night fastened about his shoulders and draped over his elephantine steed. On his heels, the Sacred Guard; resplendent in heavy armour, walking, paired as mentor and protégé, relaxed and confident. Behind them were councillors, historians, master assassins, heralds and aides.
Then came the legions.
Clanking metal columns of men, six abreast, wading through the muck left by the cavalry like a prickling glacier, and moaning the “Hymn of Advance”: a staccato, wordless incantation timed to their footfalls. The femur trumpets shrieked behind, and the air overhead was thick with ghastly alien banners. Tattered wolf and bear skins. Tall, narrow flags bearing crude and disturbing Anakim pictures. Eagle wing
s, vulture wings, hawk wings, buzzard wings; twisting, flapping and bouncing. Just two auxiliary legions stayed north to continue the Great Canal and guard the kingdom. For six hours, the soldiers kept coming, not so much an invasion as an armed migration, vanishing between the hills.
And though the hastily constructed bridges were bending and creaking, splinters erupting from their joints, it did not stop there. The legions were followed by the baggage train: a mighty trail of wagons, oxen and sheep, twice the length of the armoured column that had preceded it and driven mostly by women.
Standing on a hilltop with a pair of companions, a dark-haired Sutherner watched this metallic advance into his homeland. He stood relaxed, and was joined now and then by a messenger, whom he invariably dispatched straight away with some new instruction or observation. He watched, unobserved, from dawn until dusk obscured the dregs of the baggage train. Then, satisfied, he nodded to his companions and turned away.
He was an upstart. An outlaw. A one-time poacher and murderer. A spymaster, a rogue and a low-born charmer, wanted as much by the Suthern king as he was by the Black Lord.
His name was Bellamus.
Part II
THE SOUTH
14
The Spymaster
Bellamus rode back into camp a satisfied man. It was called Brimstream: a transformed town where he had once hanged two of his own men, and which had become the headquarters of their small resistance. He rode its single street, past the tents that budded either side of the thatched buildings, raising a hand in acknowledgement of the greetings that followed him.
“You saw them, Master?”
“I saw them. Numbers as reported. Will, sort me a Bible with room for a message in the spine.”
“I have a message from the west, Master, reporting no signs of unusual Unhieru movement whatsoever,” said a dark, thin woman, dropping into step beside Bellamus’s horse. The upstart was riding for the building which had once been the village inn, now called the Cobweb. This was partly in reflection of the thousand invisible strands of information that converged here, but also because it was apparent to every resident that if they were discovered by either side, they would be swept away.