The Spider

by Leo Carew

  Keturah released the legs and the table fell to the floor, tipping onto one side with the weight of the sword still lodged in its planks. Revealed before her was the angular visage of the Chief Historian. Low in one hand was a blood-drenched axe and her other was held out towards Keturah, quite steady. Keturah seized it and allowed herself to be pulled from her corner, over the body of the knight who had attacked her. Then she saw Sigrid, kneeling in the opposite corner. Her shoulders were heaving, a bloody knife was abandoned by her side, and beneath her lay Hafdis.

  She was dead. She lay half-concealed beneath the body of a knight. He had a bloody wound in his neck; she a smashed and flattened chest. “Almighty help us,” whispered Keturah, raising her hands to her face.

  “There is no time for despair,” declared Frathi. She strode to Sigrid and pulled her upright. “Prepare your bow, there is more to come.”

  Keturah could not absorb what had happened. Everything she felt was crowded out by the noises of destruction swirling around the tent. Bellamus still sat tied to the pole, but his face too was in shock, for there was a sword embedded in the pole beside his neck, forcing his head into an unnatural angle against its edge. Someone had tried to decapitate the spymaster, who had evidently moved just fast enough to be saved by the post to which he was tied. Keturah stared dumbly at the Sutherner.

  “Release me!” he bellowed. “Release me, and I’ll fight with you! They’re here to kill me, not rescue me!”

  Numbly, Keturah moved to obey, but an iron hand gripped her wrist. “Fool!” cried the Chief Historian. “Don’t touch that serpent. Arm yourself!”

  Sigrid scrambled for a dropped sword and Keturah wrenched free the blade that had been meant for Bellamus. She took up its appalling weight and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sigrid and the Chief Historian, who still held her maroon-headed axe. Beyond the canvas walls was the din of chaos, but nobody seemed to suspect that the men sent to kill Bellamus were now all dead themselves. They would doubtless find out soon, though: alerted by their unclaimed horses.

  Keturah stooped suddenly and dragged the table in front of the opening. As she did so, she heard a cry from outside. There were senseless words, and Bellamus looked up at her steadily. “They are coming,” he said bleakly. “Let me go.”

  “Don’t,” commanded the Chief Historian, with eyes for nothing but the entrance. Keturah backed away. They had weapons now and somehow Frathi’s implacable resolution had brought a sense of control to the tent. She would not allow her gaze to stray to Hafdis, lying in the corner. She blocked it out with thoughts of what more could be done to prepare. One thing, it seemed to her.

  She waited a heartbeat by the central pole and then manoeuvred the heavy sword above Bellamus’s rawhide tether. It fell away beneath the edge and Bellamus suddenly stirred, stretching his arms and letting out a cry of satisfaction.

  “Fool!” screeched Frathi, but she did not move. Bellamus was on his feet. He wrenched the sword from the table with a squeak, and then stretched his arms, blade held aloft and free, finally.

  “At last!” he roared. “At last!”

  31

  Reciprocity

  “Where are the attackers?” Keturah demanded. “You said there were more coming!”

  “I lied,” said Bellamus. “Forgive me, it seemed the only way to secure release.” He stood before them, sword held low.

  “Spymaster,” said the Chief Historian, “if that is not the last of your treachery, I will make certain you know a worse end than decapitation.”

  “We all stand a better chance of survival with me holding a sword,” said Bellamus. “I will not fight against you.”

  “You owe us your life,” said Sigrid, voice quivering. “Do not forget it.”

  Bellamus smiled wryly. “Not yet, I don’t. My life very much hangs in the balance. Now!” he said, eye blowing open, “there are more coming! I hear them!”

  He turned to the entrance and backed towards Sigrid, who had propped her sword against the canvas and nocked another arrow to her bow. The four of them waited together, Keturah glancing constantly over her shoulder in case someone should try and slash through the fabric at their backs. But the attack came from the entrance again.

  The first man through the slash flinched abruptly at the sight of Sigrid’s drawn bow, and the arrow that had been aimed for his throat hit the top of his breastplate with a clang and tumbled off. Keturah stepped forward and was aware of the three figures flanking her doing the same. The knight tried to thrust his halberd at Bellamus, but he parried with the sword and at the same moment Frathi’s axe hit his helmet, Keturah jabbing at his breastplate. Her blow was turned aside by the slippery armour, but Frathi had more luck and the knight crumpled to the floor.

  With a clanking and a thrusting, another three knights, one after the other, surged through the entrance. The first went for Frathi with a mace; she stepping back from Keturah’s view. The second took a mighty sweep across both Keturah and Bellamus, succeeding in driving them back. But then a feathered shaft appeared in his eye, his head snapping back before he fell like a tree. The third swerved from behind his toppling comrade and went for Bellamus with a halberd. The spymaster ducked. Sigrid had snatched up her sword and tried to strike a blow, but it was tentative and the knight turned it aside with a gauntleted forearm.

  Keturah had to leave them and help Frathi, who was backed into a corner by her assailant. The Historian was managing to block over and over by a hair’s breadth, and Keturah raised the sword high and heaved it down onto the knight. Through the handle came an awful feedback as steel, bone and brain gave way beneath the edge, which carved halfway into the helmet. Unaccountably the knight did not fall. He no longer attacked, just swayed, sword embedded in his head, until Frathi poleaxed him with a side-swipe of the hatchet.

  Keturah nearly retched at what she had done but Frathi did not let her, thrusting her shoulder around to face the knight behind them. Bellamus had pinioned his arms, weapon forgotten, and Sigrid planted a perfect arrow over the spymaster’s shoulder, into the knight’s neck. He fell, but more were stepping through the slash and Keturah cried out, realising she had dropped her sword.

  One attacker went for Frathi, another for Keturah. It was all she could do to retreat from the halberd thrust at her breast and she nearly lost her footing. Her eyes jumped for a weapon, but though the floor was littered with them, she would not have time to pick one up before being impaled by the halberd, which was heaved back for another thrust. She twisted aside desperately and seized the halberd before it could be withdrawn, her fingers half on the shaft and half on the blade. The knight wrenched it back savagely but Keturah held on. Blood leaked between her fingers but she felt no pain in her numbed hands and held on grimly, refusing to give the knight another chance to strike. He looked horrified at her bloody hands, and then up into her face as she refused to let go.

  That was the expression he wore as he died. Abruptly, he staggered forward, gasping, and Bellamus delivered a second desperate blow to his back, dropping him to the floor. Keturah felt an absurd need to thank the spymaster, but there was another knight behind him and she cried out a warning instead. But the knight fell, one of Sigrid’s arrows knocking him flat. More knights were coming and Keturah snatched up the dropped halberd in her bloody hands, desperately aware that the four of them were hanging on by fingertips.

  At her back came a violent, tearing shriek and daylight suddenly splashed over the bloody interior. Then came a roar like a pride of lions and tall Anakim figures surged among their beleaguered band, armoured in the black cuirass of the Sacred Guard. Keturah recognised Gray’s mouth beneath the visor of his helmet, the captain slashing violently at the knight attacking Frathi and giving the Historian time to bury her hatchet into a breastplate. Then came another figure, not bothering with his sword and simply bowling two knights over with his armoured chest.

  Roper. Her Roper, screaming a vulture’s cry and cutting the head clean off an opponent. The swing was
so wild that it came perilously close to Sigrid, but the buffeting current of guardsmen was relentless and purged the tent of knights. The Sutherners stumbled and were knocked back, outnumbered now. Keturah felt a scream of triumph come unbidden to her throat, and charged forward with her halberd lowered. The knights were in retreat, but she followed the guardsmen out of the tent and into the bright lands beyond. But there was no one to strike at. Every Sutherner she could see was on horseback, fleeing the scene as Sacred Guardsmen prowled after them.

  A hand gripped her shoulder hard and she found Roper beside her, his eyes searching her for injury. “Wife?” was all he said, voice trembling and gaze fixed on her face.

  Tears suddenly flooded her eyes. She dropped the halberd, brought her hands up to her face and howled, as Roper too dropped his sword and enfolded her. There they stood, the fury between them forgotten at last, she sobbing wretchedly into his shoulder, and he making odd keening noises. “Hafdis!” she cried.

  “I know,” murmured Roper. “I saw.”

  Men were still dying around them, but the Sacred Guard had such tight control over the situation that it did not seem to matter. A violent shivering overtook Keturah as she remembered with horror the feeling of that sword in her hands, splitting the knight’s helmet open. And then the sight of Hafdis, crushed in the corner, Sigrid leaning over her. She retched.

  “I am sorry,” Roper was saying. “I am so sorry. None of this will ever happen again. None of it. I was stupid. So stupid.”

  “What are you doing here?” Keturah demanded, voice emerging furious, though she had not felt that as one of the emotions crowding her.

  “There is no time, my love,” and he pushed her gently away. “I must go. We can do this. We can finish them here!” Roper was suddenly manic. “We only came back for you, but the army is still advancing. Sturla’s in charge, but they need me.”

  “I will not be left here again!” she declared.

  “No, come with me, now, now! We will get you a horse, but we must hurry. We can finish this now! They’re over-committed and I have them.”

  Gray had arrived, leading Zephyr with one hand and a courser with another. He and Roper helped Keturah, who had never felt so weak, into the saddle. Roper mounted on Zephyr beside her and Sacred Guardsmen reared up around them. She saw Bellamus, hands bound once more, heaved onto a horse, Pryce climbing up to occupy the saddle behind him. Sigrid and Gray shared another mount and the Chief Historian, imperious on a black stallion, swept past straight-backed. Abruptly, Keturah reached out. “My lady!”

  Frathi turned towards her, eagle-like in her poise and fierce gaze.

  “Thank you. You saved me. And Sigrid.”

  “It was you who stopped them, Tekoasdottir. But it is not over yet. Come, now! We must ride!”

  The band of riders swept forward like a flock of geese, Roper at the head of the V, the figures in his wake riding like the possessed.

  The battle that followed was not like any that Keturah had heard of. There were no infantry lines, sustained engagements or war-hymns bellowed across the plain. It was fought in a great swirl around the city; through the fields and trees. The Sutherners drew back, pursued by the legions, who seemed too weary to catch their enemy, until Roper appeared. Then he would bawl at his men, riding just ahead of them and dragging them on, on, so that they pursued and managed to pin first one part of the Suthern army, and then another. If the legions would not keep up, then Roper would spur ahead with the Sacred Guard and attack the retreating Sutherners with their tiny band, holding them and inviting his legionaries to come and save them before they were overwhelmed. They always responded, finding the energy to reinforce the Guard just before they were surrounded. They would crush one group, then Roper would drive on, seeking the next.

  At one point, mounted Sutherners came hurtling from their left in their thousands, heading straight for the Sacred Guard. They were intercepted within moments by the Black Cavalry and the two forces swarmed angrily together like wasps against bees. The formations passed through one another as colliding constellations, surprisingly few falling from either side as they galloped and clashed.

  Roper and the Guard kept moving, tearing around the city in a game of cat and mouse, which might have been farcical had so many bodies not strewed the grass. Arrows spat from the defenders on the walls and the Sutherners stayed close to them, and the pitiful shelter that they offered.

  Once, the gates of the city were heaved open and defenders sallied out behind the Sacred Guard, evidently hoping to catch them unawares. It seemed Roper had expected this, for an entire legion had been concealed in the forests, and roared forth in reaction, turning the attack upon its head. Chaos reigned, no part of this mêlée clear without the Skiritai, but Roper, gesticulating with Cold-Edge like a baton, was so relentless that the chaos seemed not to matter. By the end of the day, Zephyr was foaming and tossing, as tired as any of the legionaries and refusing to do more than trot at his master’s command.

  It was supposed later that Earl Seaton had only planned to distract the legions, giving his knights time to ruin the pitiful Anakim food supplies and kill the spymaster. But he had underestimated how fast even exhausted legionaries could move over rough ground. His forces were overcommitted from the start and he showed no desire to engage in a conflict that he was certain to lose. He retreated, sacrificing piece after piece of his army to the Wolf, which worried at him, and preserving the most valuable of his soldiers. The rest were dragged down, engaged and surrendered in hopeless fragments.

  The legions took no prisoners.

  By the time it was over, the sun hung low and bleeding over the trees. The evening was balmy and still, so that the legionaries traipsed back into a camp hazy with wood smoke. They crashed to the floor without strength to unbuckle helmet or breastplate, heaving and gasping into the crushed grass. Roper saw Keturah, trembling still and furious with her body for this betrayal, to the remnants of their hearth, and then left with Gray to collect water for his spent warriors. The camp followers, who had fled to the trees when the knights had attacked, began to emerge in wonder at this atmosphere of unexpected peace: an army crumbled to ruin by its endeavours. They could have asked for no better ratio of men killed to men lost, but still this did not feel like a victory. They had weakened Earl Seaton’s army, perhaps fatally, but this battle was tactically insignificant. They finished the day where they had started, Deorceaster still standing, their victory divided into fifty tiny pieces.

  Sigrid joined Keturah at her hearth, the two of them sharing a look and a quick embrace before they sat down together. Keturah felt empty: so empty that she would not have been surprised if she had shrivelled, her skin wrinkled and creased as she collapsed in on her hollow core. But she was also proud, in some battered way. They had survived. They had foiled the attack on their camp by preserving the spymaster. Usually so quick with a joke and some cynical observation, Keturah had never felt humour so far from her mind. For a moment, she just had to be still, in this silence, with her friend.

  After a time, she found she could not bear the thought of Hafdis lying alone in that tent. She glanced at Sigrid, who nodded, and together they ventured back to the tattered mound of canvas. Keturah ignored the dim, scarlet-stained walls and stepped over the armoured corpses, eyes only on Hafdis. Together, she and Sigrid dragged her body out from beneath the knight who had killed her and began to clean it. They fetched water, washing blood from her lips, dressing her hair and closing her eyes. Sigrid stripped some hawk-feather fragments from her arrow fletching and they wove them into a necklace, fastening it about her neck and turning her towards the east, before Keturah shrouded her in a cloak.

  Keturah wanted to bury her, but was trembling so violently that Sigrid took her hands, staring down at the jagged wounds inflicted by the halberd she had snared. “We can do that later,” she said, guiding Keturah back to the hearth, where they drank pine-tea and wept together.

  Roper returned to the hearth soon after. He shook
hands quietly with his legates and the Chief Historian, thanking them for their part in the victory that day. “It does not feel a great step, but it is. This had to be done. This had to be done, and it was a triumph.” Then he came to Sigrid, whom he embraced warmly. “I am very glad Keturah had you in that tent with her, my lady,” he said. Sigrid’s smile was bleak and weary.

  And last, Roper came to his wife. She sat still on the floor, looking up with tear-stained eyes as he crouched down before her. Gently, he placed his hands on her cheeks and they leaned together, touching foreheads.

  For the first time that she had seen in months, he was calm.

  It was dark before Roper came to the shreds of Vigtyr’s tent. Front and back gaped like ragged curtains. The air was cooling without the cloud cover of the previous weeks and for the first time that Roper could remember since they had crossed the Abus, the stars had come out. It eased the homesickness that twisted the camp. The steel points still shone in their familiar patterns. The Bear and the Dying Hunter. The Winter Road and the Dark Birds that flew above it.

  The two Sacred Guardsmen sitting outside the tent heaved themselves upright as they saw Roper. He waved for them to relax, shaking each by the hand and asking about their day. “I am exhausted, lord,” confessed one. “That was tough.”

  “A huge effort,” Roper agreed. “But incredible will from the legionaries. The Sutherners weren’t expecting that much energy, and we’ve given ourselves some breathing room. We’ll hunt tomorrow, get as much food as we can. Once we’ve managed that, our position is a good one.”

  They acknowledged this wearily, but Roper could tell they did not believe their hunger would be lifted any time soon. He saw them sit back down before he passed inside the shadow of the tent. He had ordered the bodies cleared out earlier, but could see nothing within. He spoke to the void. “I do hope you’re still in here.”