The Spider

by Leo Carew

  “Almighty, I wish Tekoa was with us,” said Gray.

  “We are more than enough,” Roper responded.

  He pushed the army right the way to Deorceaster, passing through the low Suthern forest promised by the Chief Historian. It was the first Roper had seen, and they marched nearly a league inside before he realised that it would get no denser. This was not a brush borderland between the naked hills and the true wilderness. This was it. The forest.

  He and Gray looked with dismay at this refuge. The trees were stooped, cowed, and oddly lonely. Where were the creepers and climbers? Where were the wood-wasps, the gadflies and dragonflies that should have made the air by the river thrum? Where the goshawks and their phantom calls? And where was the sense of mystery, anticipation and things beyond sight that was present in the north? This was not a forest, but the skeleton of one. For generations, the Sutherners had taken the straightest and tallest trees for timber, leaving behind twisted, knotted survivors, incapable of reproducing their forebears. For all that this forest lacked, it was infested with deer, drumming between the trees like cattle. Doubtless this was another reason the trees were so mangled. There were too few predators here, but no matter. The predators were here now.

  They came to the city two hours before dark. There, Roper at last allowed the infantry to rest, leaving the cavalry to continue harassing and clear some space in which they could make camp.

  All they could see of Deorceaster was a closed gate, with a palisade of fresh timber spreading from either side. The walls were crowned with hundreds of silhouetted figures, who stared down at the arriving army. Roper trotted Zephyr forward to just within bowshot and bowed to the defenders. They replied with a small volley of arrows, which fell wide. Roper pointed up at them for a moment before turning away.

  As the legionaries began to assume their familiar layout around the city, news trickled in that some of the Cavalry Corps had spotted the main body of the Suthern army. Reportedly they had been too numerous to engage and were anyway in headlong retreat. Roper saw that that news was spread rapidly, hoping it would renew the army’s sense of purpose. With a Suthern force in the offing, ditches and wooden stakes were assembled at the edges of the camp, with more built facing the gates of Deorceaster in case its defenders should decide to make a sally.

  That evening, Roper had more energy for his training with Vigtyr than he had in weeks. They selected a clearing in the bristling forests just beyond the encampment where low trees shielded their efforts from prying eyes.

  Vigtyr, struggling particularly with half-rations, had become more and more curt during Roper’s lessons. On several occasions Roper witnessed his face possessed by savagery, when he would deliver truly painful strokes with the blunt training sword. Roper refused to complain. He pursued silence, that fugitive state of mind with which he only caught up for a few seconds at a time before it eluded his clutches again. But each time, he would find it again more quickly. On a number of occasions, he kept Vigtyr fighting for up to a dozen blows, and was adding a number of useful set moves to his repertoire. When they had finished, both sweat-streaked and panting in the humid air, Vigtyr nodded at Roper. “I am impressed.” There was surprise in his words, bordering on shock, and Roper glowed. With his growing understanding of silence, he felt he knew something Vigtyr did not about the mindset in which you should fight. If he could add that to the lictor’s own technical excellence, then might he one day surpass him? It was a giddying thought, though a distant one at present.

  “Thank you, Lictor.”

  “I can see your energy as we get closer to battle,” Vigtyr added, smiling distantly. “You are much more motivated under stress.”

  “It is true,” Roper admitted. Some stresses, his mind added. Others, like the alienation of his wife hooking at his attention, or the endless doubt as to whether he might be leading his legionaries to their doom, were a constant drain on resources.

  “Are we to fight soon then, lord?” Vigtyr asked as they oiled their swords and Roper saw to the small nicks he had taken. “Will this indeed be a siege, or are we more likely to face a battle on two fronts?”

  “We must assume that if the Suthern army has taken to the field then they intend to fight us at some point,” said Roper. “I suspect they think that we have already been near-defeated by starvation, otherwise they’d have waited longer for this encounter. It suggests they are struggling without Bellamus’s information.”

  “How far away are they?” asked Vigtyr. “Are we safe from them coming down on us in the night?”

  “Not so far away,” said Roper. “Two leagues, maybe. But they won’t attack tonight, it’ll take them a while to pluck up the courage. We were on the front foot today and they’ll lick their wounds, and hope hunger weakens us further before responding. But these forests will be good hunting and we can restock our larders a little here, I think.”

  “Good,” said Vigtyr sourly. “A return to full rations would be extremely welcome.”

  There was little light left to them and a faint sting of rain as they walked back to the encampment, talking about how they thought things might progress from here. Roper was confident that once they had bested the Suthern army in the field, the resolve of the Deorceaster garrison would crumble and they would surrender, rather than waiting for assault.

  Vigtyr said he feared there was a great deal more to come.

  29

  The Earl and the Giant

  Vigtyr feared very much that Pryce suspected him. Whenever he looked at the sprinter, it seemed he would move his head suddenly, as though Vigtyr had caught him watching and he had looked away hurriedly. Too often, he was nearby, and otherwise engaged in a way Vigtyr did not find convincing. He could give Pryce no more reason to be suspicious, and as he made his way towards the woodland clearing where he and Roper had trained a few hours before, he could not afford to be seen.

  The weather was on his side. The drizzle had become a sweeping downpour, waterlogging the camp, splattering in the eyes of the sentries and obscuring all trace of the moon. It also drowned the noises of Vigtyr squelching and groping through the dark.

  He suddenly realised that he could make out the dim silhouette of a sentry before him. He tried to veer away but the figure stirred suddenly, and Vigtyr cursed. He had been spotted. “Who goes there?”

  “Lictor Vigtyr, Ramnea’s Own,” Vigtyr replied.

  “Closer please, sir,” said the sentry, cautiously.

  Vigtyr approached the man, smiling. “I didn’t realise I’d drifted so far out of camp,” he said. “A grim night to be on watch.”

  He heard the sentry let out a breath as he recognised Vigtyr’s huge form. “Yes, sir. Especially with the Sutherners so close.”

  Vigtyr laughed, patting the sentry on the shoulder. The man never saw the knife that Vigtyr swung up under his jaw, plunging it into his neck and twisting to unleash a hot gush. Soaking hands were suddenly scrabbling at Vigtyr’s own, the nails scoring his skin, the sentry unable to make any sound but a splutter. Vigtyr held him upright by the throat as the sentry weakened and faded, slowly easing him to the floor and withdrawing his knife. He cast around for signs that they had been spotted, but could see no one in the dark. He dragged the sentry’s body into the trees, and straightened up, swearing to himself. He would need to be back before the corpse was discovered, or there might be a roll-call, and his absence discovered. The Kryptea were still searching everywhere for traitors.

  He had memorised as much as he could of this area in his training with Roper and knew it was not far to stumble before he could find the river running westwards through the forest. The Suthern army would surely have camped on it, and he hoped it might lead to them. In the end, it was by sound rather than sight that he discovered the water. Just enough light made it through the clouds that he could detect its rain-sparkled surface, and he followed it carefully from the bank.

  He could soon see a dirty light bouncing off the sky. Karmipp, the Anakim called it: the light l
eaking from the campfires of an army and staining the cloud. Vigtyr broke into a trot, following the light out of the woods and onto a broad field, sown with shadows. On the far side of this, were the campfires of an army. There were dark figures guarding them and Vigtyr made directly for one of them. “Stop!” cried a Saxon voice, half in fear. “Who goes there?”

  “An Anakim informant. I am here to see Earl Seaton,” Vigtyr called back, in Saxon.

  The sentry shouted for a companion and three more men converged on him and Vigtyr. “Get down on your knees!” demanded one of the new arrivals, levelling a black polearm at him. “Hold your hands out.”

  Vigtyr tossed down his knife. “I am unarmed,” he said, unmoving and impatient. “I am an informant. Take me to Earl Seaton.”

  One of the sentries laughed. “The earl, is it?” he said. “And who after? His Majesty the king?” His fellows did not join in the joke, eyeing Vigtyr’s huge shadow.

  “I have a letter he will wish to see,” said Vigtyr spikily. “I can assure you that if I do not see him and he discovers you turned me away, none of you will survive tomorrow.” That seemed to carry some weight, but the man with the polearm insisted.

  “You go nowhere without bound hands.”

  Vigtyr held his hands out before him and they were roughly tied with one of the sentry’s bootlaces. Then he was dragged into the camp. Figures rose dramatically from the dark as Vigtyr was spotted, a low hiss and muttering following him as men woke their fellows and gesticulated at his form.

  They reached an officer and there was a brief consultation. Evidently the officer found the situation ridiculous. “Just kill him.” Vigtyr made a few points, well chosen, and the officer lost his certainty. Eventually, he was led on. This is all taking too long, thought Vigtyr, glancing to the east for signs of light. He was running out of time to get back.

  Through the dark before him solidified the squat mass of a pavilion, billowing in the small breeze and guarded by six plate-armoured retainers. The suggestion that this Anakim prisoner might see the earl was met with incredulity. “His lordship has been long asleep,” whispered one violently. “On no account will I wake him.”

  “I think it is better not to take the chance, in this case,” said the officer who had arrived with Vigtyr, not troubling to keep his own voice low.

  “It is not you who will deal with the consequences if his lordship is displeased,” hissed the bodyguard, stubbornly.

  An imperious voice spoke from within the pavilion, invading the conversation. “What in God’s name is occurring out there?” The figures outside the tent observed one another in silence. “Answer at once,” the voice decreed.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” replied the bodyguard, “there is an Anakim here who claims to be an informant and says he needs to see you.”

  “Well execute him and dump him in the river,” came the voice, impatiently.

  Vigtyr stirred suddenly, jerking forward. “I bring word from Bellamus of Safinim!” he blurted.

  Silence.

  The sentry who had been holding Vigtyr tried to jerk him back, but Vigtyr resisted. The flap in the tent opened and Vigtyr came face to face with Earl Seaton. His lean frame supported a cotton nightshirt as a mast wears a sail, and he looked Vigtyr up and down for a moment. “I’m not surprised you brought him to me,” he said to the retinue that trailed Vigtyr. “I’d have done what he said too. What a bruiser.” Nervous laughter took flight around Vigtyr, as though this were an audience brought in to add atmosphere to some entertainment. “You had better come inside,” said the earl, who then turned to a bodyguard. “All of you, keep your eyes on him, eh? Galbert, lights and candles at once.”

  The earl disappeared into the canvas mountain and Vigtyr was invited after him by something sharp resting at his back. He had to stoop low beneath the flap, and in the dark interior he could feel the canvas roof resting on his head. Nothing was visible within: there was only the soft clank of armour as other bodies pressed into the room. The walls smelt of damp and wax, and Vigtyr wondered where in this great soup of darkness the earl might be.

  After a moment, a glowing face and hands appeared at the doorway, sheltering a small flame. This was applied to various points around the room, leaving behind growing fragments of light. The candles stood upon black iron sticks, and by their glow was summoned the tent’s interior, including Earl Seaton. First his eyes, then his hands and face, the black robe he had pulled on over his nightshirt and the powerful chair in which he sat.

  Earl Seaton seemed content to regard Vigtyr silently as more candles were brought and lit. “Not the brazier,” he snapped, as Galbert attempted to light it. “We won’t be here long.” Galbert took this as a dismissal and scurried out of range. The earl sat forward on his chair, snapping his fingers at Vigtyr. “You, giant; kneel.”

  Vigtyr knelt.

  “If you bring word from Bellamus of Safinim, it will surprise you to learn that he is dead.”

  “What? No lord,” said Vigtyr. “He lives.”

  “This is tiresome,” said the earl. “I have witnesses, dozens of them, who saw him seized by Anakim forces. Your race does not take prisoners, and we have not heard from the upstart in weeks. He is dead, as surely as you will be soon. You are here to plant false information. What is it then? Speak.”

  “He was captured, lord,” said Vigtyr quickly, stumbling over the Saxon words in his haste. There was some laughter from the watching soldiers and Vigtyr felt a drop of rage added to his fear. Perhaps he had been gulled by his civil dealings with Bellamus, but he had at least expected to be taken seriously. “But the Black Lord kept him alive,” he continued. “He thought that as a spymaster, Bellamus might have information the Anakim could use. I come with a letter from him as proof.”

  “Where?”

  Vigtyr did not know the Saxon word for pocket and indicated his right thigh with a pat of his bound hands. Earl Seaton nodded at an armour-plated guard, who thrust a hand into Vigtyr’s pocket and retrieved a scrap of linen. Seaton unfolded it, gazed down and gave a dismissive snort. He held it out to show his audience. Written in an untidy hand in thick lines of charcoal were the words:

  Alive

  Bellamus of Safinim

  “Strangely,” said the earl, “Bellamus now writes roughly as well as you speak Saxon.” There was another round of mocking laughter. “Though I suppose he was rather late in learning his letters.”

  Vigtyr’s anger grew a little. The note was real, and had been hard to acquire. By offering his tent for Bellamus, Vigtyr had secured a private place to meet the spymaster. Leaving his food inside had given him an excuse to enter. Thus, he and Bellamus had been able to conduct an exceedingly brief audience the previous evening. “The note is real,” he said stiffly. “We Anakim cannot write. That is his own hand.”

  Seaton gazed at it a little more closely. “You,” he said, pointing at one of the audience. “Bring me that knight, the one close to the upstart.” There was the sound of flapping canvas behind Vigtyr as someone exited the pavilion. “We shall find out the truth of this,” said the earl.

  They waited in silence for a time, Vigtyr’s panic building. Even if he did leave this pavilion alive, he was surely out of time to get back to the Anakim camp before dawn, or before a roll-call highlighted his absence. “If you do not listen to me soon, lord,” said Vigtyr, “it will be too late.” That was met with the dismissive gesture, as though the earl were trying to flick water from his fingertips. Presently, the canvas at Vigtyr’s back opened once more.

  “Ah, Sir Stepan,” said the earl, eyes fixed at a point above Vigtyr’s shoulder. “We could do with your assistance.”

  “As my lord requires,” said a voice at Vigtyr’s back. Into view strode a Sutherner of unusual height and breadth, his beard amber, and his long hair tied back in a tail.

  “This one,” said the earl, pointing a finger at Vigtyr and giving the lictor a roguish smile as though he had caught him misbehaving, “tells me Bellamus is still alive,
and that this,” he wafted the note before Stepan, “is his own hand. Could you confirm?”

  Stepan took the note with a small bow and studied it. “It is hard to tell,” he said. “The letters are so large because the lines are so thick.” Vigtyr stirred, staring desperately up at the new arrival. “But… there are familiar elements to it. It would not surprise me at all if this was in his own hand.” Stepan’s eyes had widened as he spoke. He looked imploringly at Vigtyr, who tried to make it clear from his face that he spoke the truth.

  “Very interesting,” said the earl, holding out a hand for the note, studying it in turn, and balling it up to toss delicately at the cold brazier. “You may leave us, Sir Stepan.”

  “Could I stay, my lord?” asked Stepan. “I should like to hear what comes of this.”

  “If you wish. So,” Seaton turned back to Vigtyr, “if this is true… I cannot deny I would prefer him not to be in the hands of the Black Lord. But why would you help the upstart?”

  “I have been an informant for months,” said Vigtyr. “I have a personal grievance with the Black Lord. I want him toppled, and Bellamus is helping with that.”

  “What is your grievance?” pressed Seaton.

  Vigtyr hesitated. “I served him well last year. He promised me a reward that I have very long desired, and then refused it. He used me to gain his throne, and then tossed me aside.”