by Leo Carew
Roper threw back his head and laughed. As though it were a signal, the legionaries at his back growled into song. Almund would not be able to understand the words, but it moaned into life like some terrible piped instrument, swelling with the evident impatience of thirty thousand wild warrior people. The thumping continued beneath it all, smashing rhythmically and regularly like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
From a land that lies in shadow
In pitch-dark and glaring light,
Where each footstep must be silent,
And each deed’s in Holy Sight.
By not light but ancient custom,
Are we guided through these lands.
From a place where fear is different,
Where sole hope your comrade’s hand.
It was the “Hymn Abroad”: the legions’ darkly humorous response to their homesickness. The Deep Historians taught that the war-hymn was the very origin of music: a powerful incantation for unity and intimidation, and the last remnants of the magic which suffused Albion when the world was young. Though its potency had faded with the rest of the magic that the Anakim had once commanded, Roper could still feel its power. It was something the Sutherners, who approached battle in silence, seemed to have forgotten. “That’s a fine sentiment, Almund,” he said. “But do you not have a duty of care to those in your city? Come now, if you force us to break in, we will kill you all. It will save us a lot of death in the future if your people learn now what happens to cities who resist. There are no survivors.”
Almund smiled a horrible, twisted reply to Roper. “And you’re telling me we won’t all die anyway if we let you through those gates?”
“We are coming through those gates anyway, Almund,” said Roper. “Whether you allow us or not.”
Bid farewell to sun and daytime,
Bid farewell to stars and night,
We’re the ending of your nation,
And your god who shone so bright.
The time has come for hard choices,
If you can, you must decide
What to resist, what to accept,
If to fight or step aside.
“And if I treat with you demons?” asked Almund, his voice raised over the savage chanting of the legions. “Make a pact with you in the hope of saving my own life? How will I answer to my God?”
“You will find the words, I’m sure. Tell Him you had no choice.”
The mayor still wore his bitter smile. “Whatever you are, whatever you can do, whoever your friends are, whatever you represent, I know this: you are my enemy. I feel that in my guts and heart and bones. Above anything else on this earth, you are worth fighting. I will take my chances in battle.”
“That is brave indeed,” said Roper, nodding down at Almund. He dug his heels into Zephyr slightly so that the beast stirred and clinked in his barding. “And I am glad to hear you say so.” He grinned again. “It is necessary, you know, to ask for your surrender. But these men behind me,” Roper raised a careless hand to indicate the growling legions, “they love to fight Sutherners. I am only the handler, and I am not sure I could have held them back.” He turned Zephyr away, Tekoa and Gray falling in behind. “I wish you good luck.”
21
The Quiet War
Queen Aramilla had discovered many years before that a life of nobility did not suit her. Her husband was a king, her father an earl, and having known nothing but extravagance all her life, it bored her. Security seemed another word for restriction, and adoration made her wish for nothing so much as solitude. One could see it in the muted expressions of her harsh and beautiful countenance; the nodding of one satin slipper, tapping at the floor; in the strings she identified and tugged in those near to her. Most of all, one could see it in the risk which she courted, a little more each day.
So it was that she sat alone in a candlelit hall, shadows cast long over the floor by a popping fire of pine logs, translating a note cyphered in the hand of an outlaw and an upstart. Over the parchment lay a fenestrated wooden frame, one of only two copies in existence. She had one, Bellamus the other, and with it she could illuminate the relevant letters among the coded ink he had sent her that morning, concealed in a book. There were sixty thousand legionaries south of the Abus, she read. Northern Suthdal was overrun, and the Anakim had turned to Lincylene. There they had discovered the walls, which she had petitioned the king to construct. The note finished with an opaque reference to a weapon that the upstart considered trialling. It showed catastrophic potential and, if effective, he was not sure whether it would be proper to use it.
That news elicited the merest flick of her eyebrows. Bellamus had never been much concerned with honour, and she could not imagine a weapon he might baulk at using. Had the sense not been so clear, she might have thought she had mistranslated the cypher. It leaked isolation and exhaustion as clearly as if the page were stained with tears.
She was just trying to decide how much she might reveal to the king, whether her fear of the Anakim outweighed her desire to see one in the flesh, when the door hiccoughed. It rebelled briefly against its latch before settling back into the frame, the fire flaring slightly with a new draught. Someone had opened the door at the end of the corridor outside. Aramilla stood suddenly, thrusting the wooden coding-frame beneath a cushion beside her, and snatching the message from the table. She strode to the fire, balling the parchment and thrusting it through an iron-linked spark-curtain and onto the flames. It landed atop a log, in such a cool part of the fire that it would take a long while to burn, but she had no time to move it, for the latch on the door behind her had started to lift. She rearranged the iron curtain and dropped her arms by her side as she heard the door swing open.
She turned her head deliberately slowly, as though she had been caught gazing vacantly into the flames, and saw her husband, King Osbert, shuffle in. He was dressed as ever in that preposterous bear fur and a gilt-rimmed helmet, his mighty eyebrows two dark blotches on his shadowed face. “My love,” she said, giving him a short smile and turning back to the flames. The parchment had begun to unfurl, the edges smoking and the coded letters clear at its centre. She turned away, trying to regain some composure as the king dragged out a seat at the table she had occupied a moment before. It was cluttered with several goblets, a decanter, half a dozen needles and stacks of books and parchments. They were histories, philosophies and biblical readings: given to her by the king for her instruction. He hefted the decanter and filled a plum goblet for himself, taking a draught as she came to sit opposite him.
“How have you found your readings, dear woman?” he asked, goblet clunking to the table and gesturing at the books piled around them.
Aramilla gathered herself, trying to forget the note smouldering in the fire. “I particularly enjoyed this,” she said, plucking a parchment which she had skimmed earlier that morning. “How interesting that the Frankish once worshipped and venerated the mountain Anakim.”
“Ah,” said the king. He began a melodic instruction: “Yes indeed. There was a time that fervour swept all Erebos, when people began to turn away from the one true God in their fascination with the Anakim. Part of their magic, I believe. Their power was stronger in the old days, and they could weave a spell to enthral whole nations of people. Only through faith in God, and by burning their feathers, are we safe from that threat.”
Aramilla nodded. “We are fortunate to live in this more holy age.”
The king’s head was bobbing sagely. “Indeed, indeed. There is much more to be found here,” he said patting the pile of books before her. “You must keep reading; it is a most illuminating period. I sent the same texts to your father, who was kind enough to say he was greatly fascinated.”
The only way that might be true, thought Aramilla, is if they make a particularly unusual colour when burning.
“This is a great secret,” continued the king, leaning in conspiratorially, “but I have named him commander of the force that will repel the Anakim.”
&nb
sp; “You do us all a great honour, my love,” she replied dutifully. She had known for days that Earl Seaton was to take charge of Suthdal’s defence. “I suppose there are no more generals experienced in fighting the Anakim.”
“Not since Bellamus and the Eoten-Draefend turned on me, as I was warned they would,” said the king, his head suddenly bowing. “I am too trusting, sweet woman. Too kind. I should have listened to those who doubted them and said a hybrid and an upstart were not to be trusted.”
“When is my father to march against the Anakim?”
“He does not believe it is wise to meet them in open battle,” said Osbert. “Instead, he will strip the land and withdraw our forces, weakening them through starvation. We have worked to fortify the towns for months now. They will have to prise open each one, and we will not face them on the field until they are nearly defeated already.”
Aramilla pretended fascination, though none of this was new to her. She and Bellamus had developed this strategy together, and she had delivered it piecemeal to her father in the form of vague musings and offhand comments. “That sounds most wise, my love. I dare feel hopeful.”
Just then, the fire gave a loud pop, causing King Osbert to start violently. A flurry of sparks burst clear of the flames, most arrested by the iron curtain but some making it through the gap where the edges did not quite meet. And coughed out among them came the half-burnt note from Bellamus. It landed on the floor in front, surrounded by half a dozen embers, glowing like fierce chips of ruby. The king glanced at the fire, but did not immediately seem to register the paper that had been spat onto the floor.
“It is working well at Lincylene,” blurted Aramilla, trying to draw his attention away from the treacherous note lying before the fire. “Without the walls, the Anakim would have been able to take the city and replenish their supplies.”
The king looked back at her, taking a breath which he never quite seemed to release. “You believe the Anakim have reached Lincylene?” he asked, goblet clutched to his breast.
“What?” But she knew she had slipped. Bellamus, with his army of informants, sometimes pre-empted the Anakim movements and sent her word of what they were going to do some days before the news reached Lundenceaster. She usually kept this information back until it was more common knowledge, but distracted, she had made a mistake. She tried to think of something to say, meeting the king’s narrowed gaze across the dark table.
“What is it that you’ve heard?” he said, after a long moment.
Aramilla still could not reply, every nerve bent towards the smouldering note lying just feet away on the floor. Above all, she must keep him away from that. “Just that Lincylene is besieged.” she said at last. “You didn’t know? I heard tell of it this morning.”
“Where?” The words might have sounded normal from another man’s lips. But he so often spoke with a tone of indulgent benevolence that its absence threatened like a roar. Her husband had been desperately paranoid ever since he had heard the news of Garrett’s betrayal, and that he and Bellamus were in cahoots.
“Just some kitchen gossip I caught,” she said. “Maybe just a rumour then,” she added. “Maybe it isn’t true.”
The king continued to observe her in silence. “You have always known a great deal about this war,” he said, very quietly. “A very great deal.” He got clumsily to his feet, knocking over his chair and clutching the goblet to him. He stared at Aramilla once more, and then turned his back on her, shuffling back to the door.
She dared not move, fearing that if she drew his attention back towards her, it might snag on Bellamus’s message. He lifted the latch and shambled through the door, which rattled shut behind him.
She let out a breath, knowing that his trust in her had been eroded, but still relieved he had not found the note. She prayed that a formal messenger bearing news of Lincylene’s siege arrived soon, and then it might just appear the kitchen gossip was faster than the official heralds, as it sometimes was. If not, she might be able to pass it off as a rumour. But whatever she did, it would be difficult to regain his trust, which she relied on now more than ever.
She stood, removing the coding-frame from its hiding place beneath the cushion and tucking it into a pocket of upholstery concealed beneath her chair. She was about to return Bellamus’s note to the fire, but stopped abruptly.
The latch on the door before her had lifted once more.
The dark boards swung open, and a black figure slipped inside: the Earl Seaton.
There was barely any particular in which Aramilla resembled her father. Where she was golden-haired, lined and freckled by the sun, Seaton was black-haired, pale-faced and lean as an arrow. His joints moved altogether too freely, as though his wrists, hips, knees and elbows were fastened with string. His clothes were black and closely tailored, and his neck and fingers encrusted with gold. The only thing they shared was a look of frequent, callous amusement, which he wore now. “Ah, Daughter, I thought I’d find you here. His Majesty seems a little perturbed,” he noted, coming to join her at the table. She hesitated, unable to resist one final glance at the note, still lying in front of the fire, before she sank back into her chair.
The earl removed the stopper from the decanter and sniffed the contents briefly. “Heavens,” he said, wrinkling his nose and returning the stopper. He glanced up at her. “Did you say something to upset him?”
“Just a rumour I’d heard, that the Anakim have made it to Lincylene,” she said, shrugging. “It seemed to make him suspicious.”
Seaton tutted, sliding into a seat opposite her. “He is always suspicious these days. Ever since Garrett and that upstart turned on him, he sees treachery everywhere.”
“So I’d noticed.”
“Well quite,” he said, with that look of callous amusement. “Wrapping him around your finger must be getting increasingly difficult. I must confess, when I arranged your marriage I didn’t think I was turning our king into quite such a puppet.” He gave a tinkling laugh like an instrument of glass. “I should probably arrest myself for treason.”
“It must be disappointing that you were not able to enslave him yourself,” said Aramilla, coldly.
He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with a fingernail. “I daresay that would make this campaign easier. He veers so wildly between wanting to appease the Anakim and all-out assault. Do you know what he suggested to me the other day?” Aramilla tried to indicate that she did not care, but her father went on. “That we should arm the residents of Lundenceaster and march every one of them to battle in the north.” The fire popped once more, and the earl glanced at it, spying the slight gap in the spark-curtain. “These absurd pine logs,” he said testily. “There should be a law against them on royal premises.” He stood and Aramilla rose abruptly opposite him, but the earl did not notice. He strode to the fire and twitched the edges of the curtain together.
Then he froze.
He bent, and plucked the singed encrypted message from the floor. He inspected it for a long while, his back to Aramilla, she standing quiet behind him. He turned to face her, black eyes boring into hers, and holding the note delicately between his fingers like the tail of a struggling rat. “What is this?”
The silence which followed was the most corrupted and violent that Aramilla had ever known. Her heartbeat, the blood through her ears, the crackling of the fire: none of these could touch it. It shrieked around her and she stared open-mouthed at her father, but could think of no answer that would sound convincing.
“I think we’d better talk, my dear, don’t you?” said the earl, stepping to the table.
“What’s that?” Aramilla managed at last. The only response it drew from the earl was a grim laugh. He steered her back into the chair with cold hands and was about to take a seat himself, before thinking better of it. He circled on the spot instead and stood opposite her, gazing down at the note.
“So,” he said coldly, meeting her eye, the note shaking a little in his hand. “So. This is his signature,
isn’t it? The upstart. Bellamus.” He shook the note again, more rage in his voice than she had ever heard before.
“I know nothing about that note,” she said obstinately, staring back at him. The earl could not decipher it, not unless he knew about the frame beneath her chair. “You are getting ahead of yourself, Father.”
Seaton straightened up a little, recoiling from her with an expression on his face she had never seen before: disappointment. “You think so, do you? I will tell you why His Majesty is so suspicious of you: because you know far more than you should. You always have. And you must know what the rumours are about the two of you. You must know what they suspect.” He balled up the note and thrust it into his jerkin. “How could you not? I face those rumours every day. In court, I must suffer the knowing smiles of Lord Sutton and Bishop Widukind, telling me: ‘Now, now Seaton, how can you stand there so mighty when we both know your daughter is debasing herself with a commoner?’ But not just any commoner: a foreign weasel, dragging himself up into the company of his betters. Our enemy. Don’t lie to me.”
Despite herself, Aramilla felt her face burn. “The note proves nothing,” she said coldly. “You cannot decipher it.”
Seaton nodded to himself, evidently taking her words as confirmation. He stared down at her for some time, chewing on his lip. “Oh, my daughter,” he said in a softer tone. “I know you like your games, but I thought you had more discipline than this. I did not think you would so disgrace your family… I did not think you would do this to me.” He paused again, staring at her. “And I now stand between you and the executioner’s block. I must admit… I am tempted… I am tempted… If your ugly deception is to reach daylight, I would prefer it came from me.”