The Spider

by Leo Carew

  “Are you all with me now?” Bellamus breached the shocking silence. “Have you come back? Bind the prisoners.” The men obeyed at once, moving silently with faces downcast. As the surviving Anakim were trussed and piled like plunder, Bellamus inspected his band. They had taken fewer casualties than he had feared. Their skill against the Anakim was improving. Bellamus had pioneered three attacking manoeuvres for his men, aimed at the gaps between bone armour. One for the raging arteries at the neck, another for those at the groin, and a third for the bundle of nerves in the armpit, and tender organs behind.

  Stepan approached Bellamus and gently grasped his left wrist, pulling it down. Bellamus, who had not realised he was still covering his eye, let it drop. “Oh God,” murmured Stepan.

  “That isn’t helpful,” said Bellamus shortly. “What’s happened?”

  “Your eye,” said Stepan. “I’ll get Hrothweard.”

  Hrothweard was the physician who rode with the Thingalith. He returned Bellamus to earth and sat him on the back of one of the Anakim wagons. Bellamus examined his rheumy eyes and great bushy beard, and the physician examined his eye in turn. “How did this happen, Master?” he asked, voice soft and face serious.

  “My horse stumbled. I hit a rock on the way down.”

  Hrothweard reached his filthy fingers delicately for Bellamus’s eye, plucking at something. “Tell me if this hurts.”

  “It hurts.”

  Hrothweard ignored this.

  “It really hurts.”

  The physician sighed and straightened up. “The eye is lost, Master.”

  Bellamus did not feel anything particularly at this news. “I see.”

  “The rock has destroyed it completely. Our priority now is stopping it becoming infected. If it does, it may spread to the other eye and blind you completely. I will prepare a poultice.” Hrothweard turned away, leaving Bellamus staring at the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” said Stepan. “Damned unlucky.”

  Bellamus swore softly to himself, the truth sinking in. He had lost an eye. He might yet lose another. “Unlucky,” he said, after a moment. “We didn’t have to charge down that stupid incline with leather-wrapped hooves. Send me Garrett.”

  “I’d give him a moment to cool off,” said Stepan, gently.

  “Send him to me.”

  Garrett duly appeared, his long-bladed spear balanced over one shoulder and his bright yellow hair plastered down with crumbling brown blood.

  “You attacked early,” said Bellamus, fixing the hybrid with his good right eye.

  Garrett heaved his shoulders, his expression blank.

  “And it cost us soldiers. The incline was too steep here for leather-wrapped hooves, and men died falling down the valley. I lost an eye.”

  “You should have removed your leather wraps, like we did,” said the hybrid carelessly.

  “You planned to do this?” said Bellamus incredulously.

  “Relax,” said Garrett. “We would have lost a lot more men if it weren’t for me. We were losing before I intervened.”

  Bellamus stared dumbfounded at the hybrid and then nodded. “Garrett Eoten-Draefend: this is the last time you command any of my Thingalith.” His voice was flat but he had spoken in rage. He suddenly became aware of how close the hybrid stood, and of the savage lance over his shoulder. He felt panic before a thought came to him. Treat him like a dog. Show nothing but certainty. So he stared into Garrett’s yellow, sulphurous eyes, vision blurring as he tried not to blink. Inscrutable, Garrett met his gaze. Then he shrugged once more and turned away, nearly swaggering back to the site of the slaughter. He seemed to take pleasure in stepping on the bodies, both Anakim and Sutherner.

  Hrothweard reappeared, washed Bellamus’s eye with a squirt from a water-skin, and covered the wound with a poultice, which was cool and soothing. Hrothweard opined that an infection was likely, and Bellamus should pray.

  Six Anakim had survived the frenzy alive. Bellamus gazed down at their bound forms for a moment, wondering if he would actually do with them as he had planned. He decided that he was not sure, so he might as well take them and he could decide later. They were loaded onto the wagons with the Unhieru arms and armour.

  Bellamus walked, still unsteady on his feet, to the overturned wagon, which some of the Thingalith were trying to empty completely so that they could right it. The contents that had spilt from beneath the canvas covering were truly disturbing. Shirts of chain mail so large they had been rolled like sailcloth. Helmets bigger than a water pail, roughly forged from absurdly thick iron plates. Simply lifting them was a struggle and penetrating them in battle would be as good as impossible. The eyeholes were perfectly round, the mouth gaping wide. Together, the expression they gave the helmet was one of utter derangement. “I’m glad not to be meeting you in battle,” he told the iron face, tossing its weight aside with difficulty. For weapons: axes as long as halberds, each blade dripping down its shaft and straight like a meat-cleaver.

  “Bloody hell,” said Stepan, hefting one of the axes himself. “We did some good today, Captain.”

  “Worth the loss of an eye,” said Bellamus quietly.

  Stepan looked up from the weapon in his hands. “Yes, my friend. It truly was.”

  With difficulty, the wagons were turned around: back up the road and towards Brimstream.

  23

  Silence

  Climbing the hill, Cold-Edge at one side and a water-skin at the other, Roper felt light-headed with hunger. They had gone onto half-rations the previous day, and everything was harder. His legs were leaden, and the prospect of training again with Vigtyr was daunting. They would need to break into Lincylene soon, or else starve.

  Vigtyr had brought practice swords with him, and set them aside carefully as Roper arrived, clearly saving them as a reward should Roper show unexpected progress. They were filling the days it took to complete the siege weapons, and this was their fifth lesson together.

  Vigtyr hoped that he had not been too hard on Roper during their previous sessions. “I thought you could take it, my lord,” he said, eyebrows raised. “But then Captain Gray came to speak with me…”

  “He what?”

  “The captain came to speak with me. He told me I was going too hard on you and needed to back off, and that you wouldn’t be able to lead or fight properly if I was taking so much of your energy. I thought that had been on your orders.”

  “I see,” said Roper, frowning. “No, don’t worry about that, Lictor. I said nothing to Gray. He saw the cuts on my arms and made his own judgement. I will speak to him.”

  “We can go easier if you like, lord,” said Vigtyr, making an expression that said he did not care either way. “But this is the best way to learn, and it seems to me you have the strength of character for it.”

  “No, don’t worry, Lictor,” Roper insisted. “I am pleased with your instruction.”

  “If you’re certain, lord,” said Vigtyr. “Back to where we left off yesterday? Show me your stance.”

  Roper did. Vigtyr’s face assumed distaste. His sword flicked out once more, a flat tap this time, rather than a cut. “Arm in.”

  Vigtyr adjusted again.

  And again. And again. The adjustments grew more and more minute but Vigtyr’s face grew steadily more determined. “Do you tire of this, Lord Roper?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “You strike me as a man of energy. Of energy and unusual determination. Will you be happy with less than perfection?”

  “No,” said Roper.

  “Neither am I. That’s what it takes to be the best. That pain in your hand. That endless dissatisfaction. Again.”

  It must have continued for hours, though it was hard to tell how much time had passed beneath the insulating fog of cloud. Finally, Vigtyr bade Roper relax and handed him a practice sword. “We will still begin every session that way. Again and again until you are perfect.” Roper dropped the sword and sucked greedily on his water-skin, but Vigtyr shook his
head. “You are training to fight in battle, lord. Do you think this is any harder than that will be? We must not stop.”

  Roper threw the skin aside, picked up the blade and they fought. Vigtyr did not hold back. Roper rarely managed to exact a single parry from him. Vigtyr’s sword would twist, gorgeously manipulated by his thick left wrist and the blunt edge would bounce into Roper’s neck, or armpit, or thigh. “Again!” Vigtyr would cry.

  On the battlefield at Harstathur, where he and Bellamus had fought in a hailstorm, Roper had felt the edge of a lightning strike. Those nearer had been lifted into the air and hurled backwards, left smoking and inanimate. Roper had only felt a touch of it: a violent quivering shock to his guts and limbs that had left him dazed and sick. That was the effect that the word: Again! as uttered by Vigtyr, was beginning to have. He flinched at each cry of it, blinked furiously and prepared to defend himself. Each time, the result was the same. A cold, painful thump. That word. Again!

  This, Roper was learning about Vigtyr. His fuel was endless. Within him, something fed an inexhaustible dissatisfaction. He drove on and on, growing less charming, the veneer of contentment stripping away to reveal hunger. A strange fixity came into his eyes, as though the lictor was entranced and he lunged at Roper over and over. Again!

  Roper felt himself grow defensive. The more wildly he lunged, the more Vigtyr punished him. He would keep going as long as the lictor did, though. There could be no question of giving up. Of all the students at the haskoli, Roper had absorbed the lessons most thoroughly. Never concede. Commit. One in, all in. Serve. Serve. Serve. Again! Again! Again!

  When Vigtyr struck Roper on the head, knocking him to the floor, Roper found he could not rise. Vigtyr stood over him hungrily and Roper could respond no further than to coil into a protective knot. Then something came over the lictor. He took a quick pace backwards and lowered his sword. “Are you all right, my lord?” he asked.

  Roper panted shallowly, and nodded.

  “We will leave it there for today,” said Vigtyr. “Do you need help, lord?”

  Roper was quiet, gathering himself. “I need… time, Vigtyr. Carry on.”

  Vigtyr bowed low, gathered the training swords and left Roper on top of the hill. He did not know how long he stayed lying there. In the end, it was that odd rattle in his chest, ever-present for the last few months, which forced him to sit up and fetch the water-skin. It was only when he had drained it that he noticed a pair of boots standing next to him. They were brown leather: stretched, abraded, worn and powdered with dried clay. Roper followed the boots up, to the craggy, authoritative and handsome countenance of Tekoa Urielson. He was being haunted by Jokul, who drifted round his shoulder to stare at Roper.

  “You don’t look well, Lord Roper,” said Tekoa. “That is appropriate.”

  Roper held out a hand and Tekoa pulled him to his feet. “Appropriate?”

  “There is bad news.”

  “Well?”

  “We have received word,” began Jokul, crisply, “that the shipment of armour and weapons destined for the Unhieru was intercepted on the road.”

  “Intercepted,” repeated Roper.

  “By Bellamus of Safinim,” said Jokul, lingering on the final consonant of each word.

  “What’s he done with them?”

  Jokul shrugged. “Taken them. We don’t know where. But somewhere far from the Unhieru, anyway.”

  Roper looked at Tekoa, who glowered back beneath furrowed brows as though Roper were responsible. Roper folded his arms and looked down at the floor. “And why,” he asked, after a moment, “are Bellamus’s spies so superior to our own?”

  “I have told you, Lord Roper,” said Jokul, impatiently, “we cannot match their writing, and are so othered by the Sutherners that even on pain of death, most will not help us. Rooting out every spy in this army—”

  “Rooting out?” interrupted Roper. “Vulture’s guts, man; you are the Master of the Kryptea! If you want to stop a flock of carrier pigeons, do you try and intercept them one by one as they fly overhead? Or do you go to the man who is releasing them and burn his bloody house down? Forget the spies: find me Bellamus.”

  Jokul went still at this. “You still believe we are doing the right thing here, Lord Roper?” he said, very quietly. “When we have made no progress, we are starving already, and now lost the allies you so unwisely recruited?”

  “This changes nothing,” growled Roper, though he knew Jokul was not alone in looking back north and dreaming of returning home. “We carry on. You are dismissed, Master.”

  Jokul turned down the hill, pale lips drawn back in a snarl. Roper waited until he was out of earshot.

  “That man is doing nearly as much to hinder us as Bellamus himself,” Roper muttered. “You know more legionaries were found dead with a cuckoo branded into them this morning?”

  “I knew,” said Tekoa. “They were Skiritai.”

  “Could they have been spies?”

  “Not damned likely,” said Tekoa.

  “So the bastard’s killing legionaries at random to put Bellamus’s spies on edge,” said Roper bitterly. “It’s mutilating our morale, and we’re already starving and frustrated.”

  “I’ve had Aledas take care of troublesome people for me in the past,” muttered Tekoa.

  Roper did not smile. “Not yet, I think. I’ll deal with Jokul in my own way before I let that one off his leash. I’m more concerned with the Unhieru. Perhaps they could be persuaded to join us before the armour arrives? They’d make light work of those palisades.” He cast an eye over the walls of Lincylene.

  “I fear how Gogmagoc would react if he heard that the Sutherners had stripped such valuable treasure from us,” said Tekoa. “No doubt he’d interpret that as a sign of their dominance, and he may think better of the alliance. In any case, do you really want them here, among our men? A few legionaries killed by the Kryptea will be the least of our worries if we have to share a campsite with Gogmagoc’s band.”

  “We must send them another shipment,” Roper said. “Much better protected than the last.”

  Tekoa cleared his throat softly at this. “Do you know how much the first shipment cost, Lord Roper?”

  “I do not,” he admitted.

  “Well don’t let such details trouble you,” said Tekoa, sourly. “But suffice it to say the debt you owe the Vidarr is already magnificent, and this war has so far yielded very little in the way of plunder. Perhaps we should leave the Unhieru in their homeland.”

  “Not this again,” said Roper. “We’ve already been stopped near dead. Without the Unhieru, we may as well yield to those already demanding we abandon the campaign.”

  Tekoa was silent at that.

  “Which we are not doing,” said Roper. “We must have the Unhieru on our side. We simply must. Whatever the cost, I will make it worth the Vidarr’s while.”

  “So when are we going to see repayment?” asked Tekoa.

  “At dawn,” said Roper. “Damn the waiting, I’m starving, and without the supplies in that city, this army will fall apart. What we need now is momentum. We have enough siege weapons to break through. Let’s flood the streets, just as we promised. Let’s make Lincylene bleed.”

  The two descended into the camp.

  The cloud had broken, leaving great shards of rose, edged with crimson, drifting overhead. Even the sky behind was flushed, and in the west, it was a sunset of such wounded, bleeding intensity, that it looked as though it might never rise again.

  Anyone might be an informant for Bellamus, so when Roper told the legates they were to assault the city with the dawn, he bade them keep it secret from their men until the last possible hour. In anticipation of renewed food supplies with the dawn, Keturah prepared some unusually fine hoosh, though Roper felt too sick to eat much.

  He knew to keep himself busy. He sharpened Cold-Edge, cut fresh treads into the bases of his boots, and wrapped his palms and finger-bases in leather to shield his blisters and keep the bones securely in
their sockets. He rubbed a little grease on his skin where the edges of armour and helmet would press, and drilled an extra notch into his sword-belt, which had already been loosened by this campaign. It helped him ignore the thunder in his chest and the power innervating his limbs. From the corner of his eye, he saw Keturah watch him a while.

  “What were all those questions you were asking the Chief Historian about silence, the other night?” she asked, evidently trying to distract him.

  “It was something Gray said about the value of silence. Apparently Sigrid and Frathi are authorities on the subject.”

  Keturah looked scornful. “Silence works for Sigrid because she’s beautiful,” she decreed. “If she were ugly, people would call her boring.”

  “Boring isn’t the word I’d use,” said Roper.

  “What would you use?”

  “Awkward.”

  Keturah tutted. “You are very wrong, Husband. She’s not awkward. She is peaceful.” Keturah came to sit next to him, and as he kept facing into the fire, smiled at his cheek. “You would be so bored if I was silent.”

  “I literally cannot imagine that situation,” said Roper.

  Keturah threw back her head and laughed. “You are so sweet when you’re irritated, Husband. The little sparks you let fly.” Roper smiled despite himself. “Is my wit not what drew you to me?”

  “I think you misremember the circumstances of our wedding, Wife,” said Roper, smiling faintly.

  Keturah laughed again. “It only took quarter of an hour, it is easily forgotten. Next time we see Sigrid, I will show you she is not awkward.”

  The senior legates began to return to the fire, with Gray taking a place on Roper’s right. “I hear you talked to Vigtyr,” said Roper, a little abruptly.

  “I did. I told him to teach, by all means, but not to wound you, and to leave you some energy at the end of each session.”

  Roper did not realise he was angry until he heard his own words. “I am not a child, Gray. I don’t need your intervention. If I feel Vigtyr is pushing me too hard then I am more than capable of saying so.”