by Leo Carew
Pryce gave a manic laugh. “Hate you? I don’t think about you at all, Vigtyr. Killing me will not make you feel any less inadequate.”
Vigtyr stopped pacing. He met Pryce’s eye, blood dribbling down his chin. “What?”
Pryce laughed again. “You will never be satisfied!” he said, gleefully. “No matter what you do, you will spend the rest of your life destroying everything around you. And worse than that: you know it.”
Vigtyr took the bait so violently that Pryce was almost not ready. Almost.
Vigtyr lunged, bloody lips pulled back in an empty snarl, sword directed at his enemy’s throat. And as Pryce had calculated, he overcommitted in his rage. He stepped too close to Pryce, who hurled himself forward with that snake-like speed, ducking beneath Vigtyr’s attack and plunging Bone into his boot. Pryce’s full weight had been behind that blow, and the blade went clean through Vigtyr’s foot and two feet into the ground, pinning him to the spot. With one good hand and one good leg, Pryce could not rise. He just kept his weight on his sword, driven through Vigtyr’s foot, and vibrated with mad laughter. “You’re coming with me, Vigtyr.”
Vigtyr screamed, and thrust his own sword into Pryce’s back. The sprinter ignored that blow, propping himself onto one elbow and reaching up with a shockingly strong left hand, using it to swarm up Vigtyr’s body. “Your swordsmanship means nothing,” he said, voice bubbling. “You’re going to die, you bastard. You traitor. You filth.” Vigtyr thrust his blade once more into Pryce’s back, but then had to leave it stuck in the guardsman as he was forced into a bow by the iron hand grasped at his breastplate. He tried to straighten, but only succeeded in pulling his enemy off the ground, closer to his face. Pryce heaved forward then, with what intention, Vigtyr could not think, until he felt the sprinter’s teeth clamp onto his neck. Vigtyr screamed, hands flying to Pryce’s head and trying to force it away, with no effect whatsoever.
Vigtyr could not breathe. He was spluttering and choking, growing purple and desperate as the teeth bit harder. Still Pryce was not satisfied, his fingers crawling up the side of Vigtyr’s head and over his face, seeking an eye. Vigtyr could feel the moment of comprehension when the digits located one and his hand orientated itself abruptly, nails digging into the scalp for purchase, one thumb pressing into the socket.
Vigtyr dropped, attempting to dislodge his opponent, and the two men collapsed in a tattered heap. Vigtyr was trying to scream, but could manage only tiny grunts, his movements jerkier and jerkier as he flailed for a weapon. His eye bulged and throbbed beneath Pryce’s thumb, his vision going first white, then red. He could feel the guardsman’s teeth shifting minutely in his neck. Finally, Vigtyr’s scrabbling hands landed on a handle at Pryce’s belt: a dagger. He drew it, plunging it into the sprinter’s neck once, and then again, and again to unleash a gout of hot blood. Vigtyr’s skin was crawling as though Pryce’s hands, his nails, were everywhere.
But that was an illusion, because Pryce had gone still.
His teeth had loosened in Vigtyr’s neck. That insane quiver of laughter had stopped, and his thumb was no longer boring into Vigtyr’s eye. At last, Vigtyr found his shaking hands could push the head away, groaning with each breath that passed his crushed throat. He wriggled out from underneath his opponent and tried to stagger back, but he fell. He tried again, and fell again, and could not understand why he was unable to move. Then he realised his foot was still pinned to the ground by Pryce’s sword, and he leaned forward with trembling hands to uproot the blade and free himself. He stumbled away, backing into the canvas, drenched in blood, staring in horror at the dead sprinter lying within his tent.
Pryce the Wild had been well named. That had been like fighting a wolverine. Trying to kill him, like strangling a snake. And even now, Vigtyr could feel the vibration of his mad laughter trembling through his flesh.
40
The Witan
Bellamus sat alone by the fireside of an inn, nursing a mug of ale. He had promised himself wine, but the innkeeper had laughed at his request. There was no wine. Trade to Suthdal had all but disintegrated with the Anakim invasion. Anyone with a ship was making fabulous money ferrying refugees into Frankia as fast as possible. There was no sense delaying the return journey to load wine, which people had no interest in anyway. The ports were stuffed with crowds desperate to trade every last possession for passage to the mainland. The roads were chaos too, and for a man like Bellamus, it had not been hard to procure money to pay for a drink and a bed upstairs.
He stared glassily at the flames, wondering if Aramilla had escaped Lundenceaster, and if she would survive the crammed roads to make it here. The town was called Wiltun: at a confluence of two clear chalk rivers, well to the west of Lundenceaster.
When a hand was placed on his shoulder, he turned only slowly, expecting another opportunistic bandit and inching his fingers towards the blade concealed in his boot. He found himself looking up into a broad face that was familiar, but so unexpected that for a moment he could not place it. Then his mouth fell open. He stood, the ale spilling from his fingers and onto the straw floor. “Stepan?”
The knight was beaming. “Captain.”
Bellamus laughed gleefully. “Stepan!” They embraced, thumping each other on the back, both roaring in joy. “By God, what is this? What are you doing here?”
They broke apart, each maintaining a grip on the other’s shoulder and grinning inanely. There were tears in the knight’s eyes. “I came to find you.”
“You fool, why? What about your farm? Your wife? I am a foreign peasant!”
“You will never be a peasant, so long as you live,” replied Stepan.
There seemed so much to say, that for a long while nothing was said at all. Only when the knight had replaced Bellamus’s spilt ale, bought some for himself, and the two were settled by the fire, were they able to talk.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” said Stepan, blue eyes fixed on Bellamus.
“Nor I you,” said Bellamus. “How has this happened? How did you find me?”
“Good lord, it’s been a long road,” replied the knight, shaking his head. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“The beginning,” said Bellamus. “Where did you go after I was captured?”
So Stepan told him. How he had first stayed with the Thingalith, which had quickly become a brutal company without Bellamus’s influence. “It was Garrett,” Stepan explained. “He took control at once. People were split between me and him as to who should lead after you’d gone, and they feared Garrett more. When it became clear that he’d be in charge, I had to leave. Thirty men threw their lot in with me, and we went to join Seaton’s army.”
“Why? I thought you wanted to go home?”
“I did. Or I do. But I kept thinking you might be alive, and thought joining Seaton was my best chance of finding out what had become of you.” He delivered this information off-hand, but he and Bellamus shared a look for a long while after. Eventually, Bellamus raised his mug and toasted the knight, dropping his gaze to the floor.
Stepan went on, explaining how Vigtyr had come to Seaton’s tent and delivered news for the first time that Bellamus was alive. How Stepan had lobbied to be included in the party to free him, but when Vigtyr had gone it had become clear that Seaton was minded only to murder Bellamus. In the chaos of the next morning, as they were pursued by the Anakim around the walls of Deorceaster, a disillusioned Stepan had deserted the army. “Seaton is a villain. I had no intention of following him back to Lundenceaster. And as the raid on the Anakim camp was thwarted, I thought you might still be alive. So I waited near Deorceaster until the Anakim had marched south, then went to search for your body. No sign, and I thought you must still be a prisoner. I planned to follow you, and stopped off at a tavern to have a farewell drink with the last two Thingalith who were with me. We deserted together, but they didn’t want to go any further and I can’t say I blame them.”
“Where did they go instead?”
&nb
sp; Stepan grimaced. “Back to Garrett. Word is he’s amassing a great deal of plunder, mostly from our own side, and using it to build the Thingalith into a private army to fight the Anakim. He is liberating hybrids across the north, and training them to fight too. Lord, there is no money you could pay me to go back to him.
“Anyway, in the tavern the only gossip was the invasion, and whether the Anakim could be stopped. And someone said they had had a one-eyed man in there the night before, who claimed to have been captured by the Anakim and survived.” They beamed at each other once more. “So I knew you were alive, and they said you were heading for Lundenceaster. I followed, but my searching for you was interrupted by Garrett’s band skulking around, delivering those plague-infested bodies to the Anakim. I didn’t want to come face to face with him, so between that and avoiding Anakim patrols, I had to spend a lot of time hiding. I thought inns and taverns were my best bet for information, and sure enough I found one who had hosted you the night before, and knew you were heading west.” He grinned. “It’s lucky you drink so much. I followed your trail all the way here.”
Bellamus raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise I left such a trail.”
“You didn’t?” Stepan burst out laughing. “Oh, Captain. In most of the taverns you’d been in, I didn’t even have to ask before you came up. They all spoke about the one-eyed man with the missing fingers, who drinks like a toad and has an unsettling air of capability. Subtle as you can be, you leave quite a wake.”
They purchased more ale, the panic of the invasion forgotten in their little corner. “I can’t believe I found you,” said Stepan. “And now you can come back with me.”
Bellamus frowned. “Back? Back where?”
“My estate,” said Stepan. “We’ll go north together, you can stay with me and we’ll leave the fighting to others.”
Bellamus stared at his companion. “That sounds wonderful, brother… but your estate won’t survive six months.”
“It what?” Stepan was not really listening.
“Nothing north of Lundenceaster is going to survive. I’m sorry,” he added, leaning forward to place a hand on his friend’s arm. “I talked with the Black Lord a lot while I was captured. I was almost a confidant of his by the end. The Anakim have come to stay. They’re not just going to exact revenge and then retreat, or rule over us and collect an annual tribute. They’re here to eradicate us. Every trace of our kind will be obliterated from Suthdal. Nothing will survive what is in the Black Lord’s mind. Nothing.”
Stepan’s eyes were so wide as to be near bulging. “But that can’t be right. They hate to be away from their own lands. They couldn’t stay.”
“The Black Lord has uncommon drive,” Bellamus assured him. “That army is sick, but limps on to his will. They are as wretched as ever at coming south, but Roper’s spell keeps them here. We have to resist, or forfeit this entire island. Everything you treasure must be brought south, where we stand a chance of protecting it.” Bellamus believed the words he told his friend, but that was not why he would not go north, to Stepan’s estate. Without this conflict; without the queen, Bellamus was nobody. That did not satisfy him. He did not want the comfortable life that Stepan dreamed of. He wanted more.
All the energy had gone out of Stepan. He wilted in his chair, staring now into his ale, lips pursed. “I’m sorry, brother,” said Bellamus. “I really am. My hope is that I’ve managed to extract the queen from Lundenceaster, and she’ll arrive here someday soon. When we’ve got her, we’ll see what we can do for your wife and lands.”
“Lundenceaster’s not even taken,” Stepan protested weakly. “Those walls are immense, the Anakim may be pushed back there.”
Bellamus stared down at his own ale. “We shall turn them back, Stepan. But it won’t be there.”
The joy was gone from their reunion. They finished their ale and went out to the streets, Bellamus saying they needed to keep an eye out for the queen. Beyond the convivial tavern walls, the streets twitched, swarmed and scurried. Refugees swept for the gates, their worldly goods bundled on their shoulders, accompanied by the usual profiteers of chaos. Twice, Bellamus and Stepan witnessed bandits openly claim a wagon stuffed with food, shooing the owners to the side of the road before ambling off with their prize. Nobody reacted. Nobody helped. The stream of people parted around the scene, attention fixed on the distant invisible coast.
They found the queen the following day.
Stepan and Bellamus sat by the gates to Wiltun, each wearing a great-sword and chain mail, provided by Stepan, to deter the brigands. The queen arrived on foot, clothes stained with dust from the road, and face sour until she caught sight of Bellamus. Then she smiled: an expression so genuine that it did not suit her. She ran to Bellamus, a plump companion on her heels, and embraced him.
“My upstart,” she broke away and regarded him. “Great God, but it’s a surprise to finally see you. What happened to your eye?”
“War,” he replied. “Majesty, may I introduce my great friend Sir Stepan, a knight who lately served your father.”
Aramilla offered her hand, but did not introduce Cathryn. “This collective decision that Albion is lost has been rather dramatic,” she observed instead, sweeping the crowds with narrowed eyes. “We haven’t even lost Lundenceaster yet.”
“People have forgotten what war feels like, Your Majesty,” said Stepan kindly. “The tales of the Anakim army have been rather exaggerated. People are saying that they are massacring anyone who resists, and it is considered a matter of when, not if, Lundenceaster falls. And with your father, and the king, and so many fighting men inside, further resistance is thought futile. It is every man for himself,” he said sadly, moving out of the way of a band of horsemen galloping for the gates, crammed saddlebags bouncing at their sides.
“I arranged a horse for you,” said Bellamus.
“Now in the possession of brigands,” spat Aramilla. She gripped his arm suddenly. “And what about you? You surely aren’t abandoning this island?”
“I have no powers,” said Bellamus, shrugging. “Beyond the man who helped you escape Lundenceaster, my spy-web is broken. I am just another commoner. But I think flight is a little premature at this stage. We need leadership and someone to rally the remaining defenders. What we need, Your Majesty, is a queen.”
Aramilla was silent a moment, looking sidelong at Bellamus. “I am nothing without the king.”
“You could be,” said Bellamus. “With him captured, you are our rightful leader. And if His Majesty does not survive the siege—”
“Heaven forfend,” Stepan interjected cheerfully.
“You have no children with him,” Bellamus continued. “You are our queen.”
Aramilla stared directly ahead, frowning. “His nephews would challenge me,” she declared at last.
“Are you certain?” asked Bellamus. “I’m not sure there’s a single noble in this land who would want to be in command when the Black Lord comes to demand Suthdal’s surrender.”
She did not reply to that, and Bellamus beckoned them all to fall into step with him. They walked in silence for a time, passing into the town. “You are leading me somewhere?” she prompted.
“To the house of the Earl Penbro: a place as rotted with cowardice as the rest of the country.”
“And you want me to stop this rot?”
“Do what you feel is right, Majesty,” said Bellamus. “But presenting yourself to him is a wise course whatever you plan to do.”
“If I plan to flee, you mean.”
“Or if you stay,” said Bellamus.
“And you, Stepan,” asked Aramilla, suddenly imperious. “I see you are a fighting man. Do I have your loyalty?”
“You seem to have the captain’s loyalty,” said Stepan, lightly. “And he has mine.”
The Earl Penbro’s house sat opposite a river, behind a moss-covered wall some eight feet high. The gates were guarded by six retainers, all wielding polearms and shifting restlessly at the pa
ssing refugees. At the approach of Aramilla’s party, they turned towards her, weapons lowering a touch. “We are here to see the earl,” announced Bellamus, grandly. “Step aside now. This is the Queen Aramilla, and she will not be kept waiting.”
Three of the soldiers laughed. The foremost of them assessed Bellamus from worn leather boots to rust-speckled mail, and then switched to Aramilla, finding her no more impressive. “Don’t waste my time,” he replied flatly.
Bellamus smiled breezily and opened his mouth to respond, but Aramilla broke in first. “Fool!” she hissed. “I am your queen! Do you think alone of those who escaped Lundenceaster, I did so with jewels and frocks in tow? How would you expect a queen who has been imprisoned by the Anakim for weeks to appear?”
The soldiers had stopped smiling.
“Admit us to the earl’s presence this instant. Now. Right now, and I will not seek retribution for your insolence.” Her voice carried undeniable authority. However outlandish her claims to being queen, this was evidently not a woman used to being kept waiting. The soldiers looked mutely to one another.
“Conduct us at once, please,” added Bellamus, smiling innocently.
“Will the earl recognise you…” the soldier paused for a moment, “Majesty?”
“Of course,” she said scathingly.
The soldiers looked to one another once more, and the one who had been speaking shrugged. “This way.” He rapped on the gate, Bellamus winking at the other soldiers as they were admitted. Beyond the wall lay a sumptuous garden bursting with flowers, marshalled into beds by a dozen streams. They crossed arched bridges, following a gravel path to a hall, distantly visible through a screen of trees.
They were conducted inside. Servants scurried across the hall, emptying chests, dismantling tapestries and staggering beneath sacks from the kitchen. Aramilla advanced straight into the flurry, leaving her guide behind. “Penbro?” she called, stirring the soldier to hurry forward and seize her arm. She ignored him. “Penbro?”