by Leo Carew
Roper did not raise his voice. “Did you think this task would be easy, peers?” He gazed from one officer to the next. “This may seem overwhelming now: that is your hunger and kjardautha talking. I feel that as keenly as any of you, but we do this because we must. There is no turning back, and I will not hear that suggestion again.”
Randolph narrowed his eyes at Roper, but raised no word in protest. Half a dozen other officers seemed ready to object, and Roper coldly observed each in turn until they looked away. “Onwards.” In unhappy silence, the legates dispersed to spread orders to the legions. Roper was left alone by the hearth, his chest filled with an untraceable dread. He went to find Bellamus.
“My lord!” He was barely away from the hearth when Vigtyr fell into step with him.
“Good morning, Lictor.”
“I wanted to suggest, lord, that Bellamus should have my tent.”
Roper stopped and turned to face Vigtyr. “An uncommonly generous offer, Lictor, what makes you say so?”
“A number of things, lord,” said Vigtyr, quietly. “I was first thinking about what you said of the standards of behaviour expected of me. You’re right, of course, I must not abuse my privileges and it doesn’t seem fair that I have a tent while my men do not. But I was also thinking that as you use the tent for your interviews with the Sutherner, and his health will quickly fade tied to that pole, well. I just wanted to offer you the chance, so you didn’t have to ask.”
Roper shook himself in an effort to show proper appreciation for this gesture. “Well, that’s a very thoughtful offer, Lictor. Very thoughtful indeed. I may take you up on it, if it is in earnest. I fear you’re right, and the spymaster will deteriorate without some shelter.”
“I hear Sutherners dissolve in too much rain,” Vigtyr replied wryly. “Yes of course. May I make one small request though, lord? I must admit I struggle with… disorder.”
“I had noticed,” said Roper, smiling. “I’ve seen constellations less consistent than your tent.”
“Quite, lord. I wondered if I might keep my food in there as well. Nothing that the spymaster can use as a weapon, or to aid his escape, but I prefer things as tidy as possible, and having a separate place to put my food would help greatly with that.”
“Certainly,” said Roper, slightly nonplussed. “It is your tent, my friend, giving you a corner of it to store some food is the least I could do.”
“I am grateful, lord.”
“Not at all. Whenever you’re ready, then, I’ll move Bellamus in.”
“I shall take out my possessions now, lord,” said Vigtyr.
“Thank you, Lictor,” said Roper, watching Vigtyr give a low bow and turn away. He thought again how everyone judged Vigtyr for his distant demeanour. He began walking again, wondering if he could use this development as a bargaining chip with Bellamus. But he found that with Tekoa and Keturah gone, and the whole army seemingly against him, all he wanted to do with the spymaster was talk.
Bellamus was in a forlorn state when Roper came to him. Around his post was a ring of thick mud and the spymaster, his clothes soaked and filthy, was scrunched in the middle of it like a used rag, shivering wretchedly. He opened his good eye at Roper’s approach and sat up with a tiny burst of enthusiasm. “My lord. Time for a rematch?”
“Not quite,” said Roper. He crouched down in front of Bellamus. “I’ve come to ask you some questions.”
“Oh.” Bellamus wilted.
“You heard what happened to the Skiritai?”
“I saw a legion leave last night, lord, and have caught snatches about the sickness. They left to try and save the rest of the army?”
“They did. I’m going to ask a particular question of you, and I very much desire the truth. Did you deliberately infect us with the sickness?”
“No, lord,” said the Sutherner, at once.
“Do you know anything about it?”
Bellamus shrugged. “It sounds very much like Slave-Plague, lord, which regularly affects hybrids below the Abus.”
“And how contagious is it? How often does it kill?”
“I truly have no idea, lord,” said Bellamus, settling wearily against his post. “It kills regularly, I know, but honestly, I wasn’t familiar with it before a month or so ago.”
Roper stared at him expressionless for a time. “We were planning to move you into the tent we play in, and out of this,” he gestured at the mud patch Bellamus occupied. “But if I suspect you’re lying, things will get worse, rather than better. So I will ask you one last time. Are you quite certain there is nothing you know about this sickness?”
“Certain, lord.”
Roper could detect no hesitation. He nodded slowly to himself, not looking at Bellamus. “Do you want to come to your tent?”
“Very much.”
Roper untied him, and led him to Vigtyr’s pavilion.
They moved on the next day.
The legions packed up, weariness evident in every movement. In a way that Roper would never have predicted, the army’s heart had gone with the Skiritai. Without them scanning the hills for leagues around, the army had to move slowly. Not that it would have been capable of moving faster even if the Skiritai had been there. So weary did the legionaries now seem that if they faced an ambush, Roper could not imagine his men summoning the energy to fight.
The body of their force went south, on a three-day march to Deorceaster. The Unhieru weapons shipment, whole once again, moved west, guarded by a full legion of auxiliaries.
In the evening, Roper trained with Vigtyr, near-fainting from hunger after each extended bout, and totally unable to discover the silence that he been developing over their previous sessions. He went to find Bellamus, and they talked, Roper shading their contest on the board once again. Then, unable to bear the isolation any more, he sought out Keturah.
She was at Sigrid’s hearth as he had supposed. In a desperate attempt to make the landscape feel more familiar, each fire in this new campsite maintained its position relative to the others like the stars. Keturah was between Hafdis and Sigrid, trying to master the cadence of a chant. “What is it, Husband?” she asked calmly, when he appeared.
“I wondered if we might speak alone,” said Roper.
Keturah sighed and got to her feet. “Excuse me, sisters,” she said, striding away from the fire and leading Roper in her wake. She turned on him, arms folded, in the no man’s land between three hearths.
“Will you come back?” Roper asked.
“No,” she said. “Not yet. I daresay my fury will blow over eventually, but you have much of it to endure before then.” There was no sharp smile as she delivered these words.
“I’m sorry,” said Roper, drawing sincerity from somewhere to invest in the word. “Truly I am.”
“Sorry that I’m angry?”
It seemed she knew from where the sincerity had come, even if he did not. He said nothing for a time, then bluntly: “Yes. I don’t believe I had a choice.”
She laughed scornfully at that. “Oh, Husband. Always your duty will come before me, I know that. I have not dared wish for a marriage in which I was the priority. I know who you are, and it is pointless to rail against that and try to change you now. You have tried your best as Black Lord, every decision taken according to what was best for the kingdom, or what seems objectively right to you. I was an afterthought all this time; only your priority when I was the means to secure your throne. Have I ever complained? Have I ever done anything save stand by your side and support you? Have I once asked for the loyalty to me that I show to you?” The moment she left him to reply was mercifully brief. “But when you sent my own father off to die in disease and obscurity, without allowing me so much as a word to him, you went too far. You should have trusted me, and the sense of duty I display every day. I would not have stopped him, I see why it had to be done. But I would have gone with him and that was my choice to make, and not yours. That is the very least I ask for in this marriage. To be allowed to show th
e loyalty I want, to those who deserve it of me. And no matter what you think, my interpretation of duty is as valid as yours. Do you have to fight at the front in every battle? Of course not, but your interpretation of duty is heroic. Mine is loving. I choose to show it most fiercely to those closest to me, and you robbed me of that, thinking it less important than the kind you display. Will my father ever know that I would have gone with him?”
“He knew,” said Roper, quietly.
“He hoped.”
Roper looked at her, the foundations on which he built his certainty dissolving. It was as she had said to him, months before, that war was the only thing that could command his attention long enough to see it through. It is true, said a quiet voice in his head. All of it. “You expected me to know all of this without ever telling me?” he rejoined stubbornly. “Given how much you keep from me, and how reluctant you are to tell me of anything important to you?”
She looked weary at that. “No, Husband. I expected you to know far more. This is some way past the unspoken line that I thought you respected.” Roper shook his head in exasperation, Keturah overriding him angrily. “But here, if I must spell it out for you. My entire life has been spent looking after my mother, who is mad. There is nothing to be done about that. It is pointless to wish that I’d had a childhood where someone was responsible for me, rather than the other way around. But now it is the only thing that really matters to me: loyalty, to my nearest. Don’t ever deprive me of that again.” Her tone made Roper blink, and raised his hackles, as any hostility always had. Any antagonism and he would dig his toes in and bare his teeth. There came a long pause as she regarded him with those poison green eyes.
“I am so sorry for this situation, and the hurt it has caused you,” he said eventually. “And I do know how much you support me. I rely on it. But I would take this choice again. I would never have let you go with Tekoa, on a suicide mission. There was nothing else to be done.”
She just laughed icily, lip curling so far back she fairly snarled at him. “I know who you are,” she breathed. “I know you hurt nobody but your enemies voluntarily. But you are thoughtless, Husband. Too blinkered by each task you sink your teeth into to consider those around you. I am so sick of drawing your attention to the collateral damage you should have considered.”
“You don’t understand,” he replied, unyielding. “I knew this would hurt you, and still I thought it was the right thing to do. I will not be blinded by your importance to me. Ever.”
Something disappeared from Keturah. Her face was set, her eyes narrowed. “I do understand, Husband. Just leave me alone.” She turned away, walking back to the fire with a little less poise than she had shown before.
Roper turned away miserably. He had never relied on anyone before, and suddenly his happiness was entangled with that of another. He wondered whether as Black Lord, a loving relationship was an indulgence that he could not afford. He allowed himself five strides with his head low and his shoulders hunched. And then he was upright again; the weight of his heart thrust out of sight.
Onwards.
In the north, it would have been Kartha: the week of short shadows, which marked the end of spring and the beginning of summer. Though this land was plump and lush, every valley stuffed with verdant shrubbery as though it had tumbled in on some particularly windy night, there seemed no animals to fill it with noise. Instead, the soundscape of their march was the sick cough of crows, and the wearing breath of the west.
Two Ropers walked camp together in the evenings. Most obvious was the Black Lord: breezy, assured and energetic. He flung out bluff greetings, was always ready with a reassuring word, and doled out dauntless confidence in great helpings. He marched alongside his men, helped them set camp with a determined perfectionism, and somehow mustered the energy to train relentlessly with his sword and sweat the spymaster Bellamus every evening. In his wake he left a sense of will and energy, which his men followed numbly, ever south.
Less obvious, like an illusion only visible in certain light, was Roper. He felt always alone. His heart jumped like a caged hare, his head twitched at unexpected noises. His chest was a rattling box of flint shards, and he was often oddly vacant, distracted by the two words that flew around his head like a pair of trapped bats. Those who saw this second character were not sure how to respond. Only Gray tried hard to bring him into better focus, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and asking how he was. The two personas merged for a moment, and the answer came that he was glad to have Gray with him.
Gray chewed his lip for a moment. “You know, there would be no shame in leaving this campaign here, lord. We have pushed very hard.”
“No,” said Roper, before Gray could go on. “No. Onwards.”
He tried to fill his every moment, but even in the brief interlude when he walked between training with Vigtyr and chess with Bellamus, he was hounded. By thoughts of Keturah, or of Tekoa and his dying legion, wherever they now were. Or of Helmec’s face, or his dead brother up at the Lake Avon haskoli, from which he had had no word since they had left. And, most of all, whether he was destroying his people: whether everyone else was right, he wrong, and that what they were attempting was impossible.
Onwards.
On a grey day, trudging across another field of blackened crops some fifteen leagues from Deorceaster, a rider came to find Roper and request his presence at the front of the column. “It is best you come and see this, lord,” said the man; one of the makeshift scouts they had been using in the absence of the Skiritai. Roper mounted a courser, Pryce alongside him, and followed the rider along the column, plodding hopelessly without heart or energy. Roper felt those two words in his head once more, and flapped them away.
The rider led Roper and Pryce away from the tramping legionaries, into a woodland lining one edge of their route. Not far inside the gloom of the trees, the rider dragged his horse to a halt, Roper and Pryce stopping next to him.
“What is this?” Pryce demanded.
“The feathers, lord,” said the rider, gesturing that they should look ahead.
Roper looked. Dim greens and browns, with the smell of earth and something faint and sickly that Roper could not place. Then he saw the first ragged feathers, attached to one of the tree trunks. It was a black falcon’s wing; swinging and fluttering in the woodland’s small breeze. Roper saw another hanging from the next trunk, and another on the next. And now that his eyes had the shape, he realised that this woodland was filled with them. Hanging from every tree, in every direction, as far as Roper could see, were black falcons’ wings. Their feathers had spilt over the floor and drifted gently over the leaf litter. Each had once been issued to a Skiritai upon joining the legion, had been worn in their hair as the proud badge of membership, and now hung in this woodland. There were hundreds of them.
“Tekoa came here,” said Roper quietly. Did one of these wings represent the legate?
“Let’s go,” said Pryce, curtly. “They probably carry the infection.” But Roper rode forward, appalled, staring at the wings and leaving his two companions behind. The hundreds multiplied until every tree that he could see fluttered with one of these wings. He did not hear the hoof beats as Pryce approached, only noticing the sprinter when he had taken Roper’s bridle.
“No good can come of this,” he said, dragging Roper’s horse around and back out of this woodland. Roper’s mouth was open, and he stared desolately about the forest. As they cleared the trees and rode back to the column, Roper tapped the messenger’s shoulder. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“I came straight to you, lord.”
“Good. Keep it to yourself.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Pryce nod curt approval. The army’s morale could not cope with this news.
The next day, things began to change. They were three leagues from Deorceaster, Roper walking with Ramnea’s Own Legion at the front of the column, and gossiping with a former Pendeen Legionary with whom he was vaguely acquainted. Up ahead, a swirling of m
en and horses became apparent, the infantry dithering, and the officers huddled conspiratorially. Roper excused himself, commandeered a horse, and rode to investigate.
They had found an army.
A league ahead, some of their makeshift outriders had encountered a band of Suthern horsemen. They had engaged them and appeared to be shading the conflict when huge numbers of Suthern reinforcements arrived. They retreated, but very few had survived to warn Roper’s forces. The Sutherners had been on fresh coursers—grain-fed, to judge by their stamina—and the undernourished scouts had been ridden down. Without Skiritai experience, the officers explained in twos and threes, they had only the vaguest sketch of where the enemy was and how many. Roper cut through their concerns.
“Send the Cavalry Corps forward, legions advancing double-time behind. If they have at last come to battle, it does not matter how many of them there are. The advantage is ours. Let’s see if we can pin them down.”
He turned in a jingling flurry to the infantry. “Battle, my peers! Battle at last! The hour is upon us, go, go, go, go!” The aides put their horrid femur trumpets to their lips and an urgent ululation filled the air, like the alarm call of an alien bird. The banners took flight and the army’s heartbeat, its drummers, thundered into life, Roper shouting over the top, swearing at his men and bellowing them onwards. The column was propelled forward and Roper summoned Zephyr, his vast grey destrier, which he rode alongside.
Over the next two hours, a battle seemed constantly imminent, Roper driving the legions forward, hunting after each report of Suthern cavalry encountered in woodland, or a glimpse of some dismounted knights, or the call of distant trumpets. The Cavalry Corps swept ahead of the infantry, responding to every half-credible account. Once, Roper heard the tin clatter of distant swords, but it did not last long and the only proof he saw was a score of Suthern bodies cleared to the side of the road. He had the impression that they had caught an outer edge of the army, which was flinching away from the Black Cavalry, whom Roper sent groping after them like a murderous hand. Minor skirmishes abounded, but from such a variety of directions that Gray and the Chief Historian, attempting to help Roper interpret what was happening, shrugged and threw up their hands at each new account.