The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  It was held together by an exoskeleton that laid bare its inner workings. It was half machine, half organism. Its heart was a little spring; perfectly weighted and animating the busy cogs with which it was enmeshed. There was no flaw in any one of its workings. It ticked and clicked with quiet order and, twelve times a day, a bell would chime out the hour. It was unnecessary, of course. A frivolous waste of good steel, but Kynortas was convinced that he had seen the future. One day, such craftsmanship could build a boat that would man itself, or a harvesting machine that could cut down an entire field if it were just set moving.

  Now, he thought of his legions as clockwork. The epitome of flawless, synchronised cooperation. The Blackstone Legion armed itself as five thousand blades were swept clear of their scabbards. It surged forward in ten waves, five hundred abreast. Kynortas was extending his influence through the flood waters; they were his harvesting machine and he had set them moving. Two lines, one calm and ordered; one frenzied and chaotic, splashed through the flood waters to meet each other. It would be a slaughter.

  The clockwork failed.

  The Blackstones began to stumble and fall into the waters. Legionaries started to drop by the handful, with more and more falling until the front rank in its entirety had dropped below the surface, no longer howling but crying in pain. Those who followed met the same fate, staggering and plunging into the flood waters. Kynortas spurred towards his Left, straining his eyes at the scene. Why were his soldiers falling? Was the footing treacherous? But this was Suthern trickery; the water around the Blackstones was turning red with blood. Beneath the flood waters, a trap had been laid.

  The Blackstone Legion had stopped dead in their tracks. Every man that attempted to advance stumbled and fell. The Sutherners on the ridge jeered and hooted and their charging warriors, who had seemed to be in chaos, stopped seventy yards short of the stricken Blackstones. They were longbowmen; so lightly armed and armoured that they would never have stood a chance against legionaries in open combat. They had charged to bait the Blackstones and now revealed their true strength: their great curved yew bows. These were unslung, arrows nocked to strings and deadly shafts poured into the legionaries. Their fletching whistled as they hurtled forward; a noise like a sky-full of whirring starlings. At this close range, some of the steel-tipped arrows were able to penetrate tough Anakim plate armour. The legionaries, unable to move in either direction, dropped into the flooding to try and limit the damage of this swarm of arrows. They cowered in the waters, seemingly completely mired. Kynortas was witnessing the near perfect destruction of one of his legions at the hands of the Suthern upstart, Bellamus. The Anakim Left was ruined and they had yet to kill a single Sutherner.

  “Roper, with me!” bellowed the Black Lord. He spurred towards the Blackstones, shouting that the trumpeter should signal the halt. The Anakim line juddered to a standstill, so that they could not outstrip the mired legion and leave their flank exposed. But this left them vulnerable to the longbow shafts that rained down upon the line from the ridge. These arrows were more distant and so had less force, but they still withered the Anakim ranks.

  Roper and Kynortas sped towards the Blackstones, Kynortas looking first for the problem, and then for a solution—any solution. But the Black Lord, so calm, so confident, had strayed. He feared for his legion and could not understand how the battle had escalated beyond his control so quickly. So he rode towards the problem, seeking a solution.

  And a gust of arrows took him and Roper.

  They struck plate armour with a clang like the splitting of a bell, the force enough to knock the Black Lord from his saddle and stagger his heir. Kynortas’s boot became entangled in the stirrup and he was dragged through the water by his bolting stallion, straight towards the Suthern line. His body left a trail of blood through the flood waters.

  Roper, staggering and with an arrow protruding from beneath his collarbone, spurred his horse after his father. Kynortas was not resisting, lying limp as he was pulled through the waters towards his enemies and Roper spurred hard enough that the horse’s blood and his own mingled and dripped from his stirrups. Arrows spat into the waters around him and more clanged off his armour as his father was dragged further and further from his reach.

  Blood-crazed Sutherners were swarming towards him. Roper drew his sword in anger for the very first time and hacked down. There was a ring of metal on metal and a juddering shockwave ran up Roper’s arm. He struck wildly once, twice, three times; his eyes always on the body of his father which had now been dragged into the heart of the Suthern mass. Men drew wicked knives and converged on the body to claim the rich prize: a fallen king. The Black Lord was dead and his son was dying.

  Roper was spraying vile curses at the men between him and his father, trying to drive his horse onwards. A hand seized his boot and dragged him from the saddle. He crashed into the flood waters and for a moment could neither see nor hear as he was engulfed. There was an awful, puncturing sensation in his thigh and he knew he had been stabbed. Panic lent him strength and he thrashed to the surface, finding his sword still in his hand and sweeping it from the water. He was pinned to the ground by a spear thrust into his leg but he could still swing his sword and aimed it wildly at the Sutherners who surrounded him, blocking attacks as best he could. One lunge made it through and smashed into his head, where it opened a gash to the bone but went no further. Whilst Roper’s head was ringing, his vision a clouded white, another thrust hit his chest, puncturing his plate and through to his bone-armour where, again, it was stopped.

  Roper had no idea of it but he was screaming; a vile shriek of distress and ferocity as his sword flailed through the air, seeking to strike back at someone. He was alone in these waters, which were steadily turning pink with his own blood. He could barely see the sky, the view blocked by lunging Suthern bodies. There was no noise at all; he was enslaved by the overwhelming instinct to keep himself alive for a few seconds more.

  An improbable freedom had descended upon him. His self-doubt was gone, his mind wiped clean for one great, dynamic effort. His vision, which no longer felt like vision in the ordinary sense, had become tunnel-like and responded to motion alone. He could not think, he had no control; Roper was stripped to his core. He was a cornered wildcat. There was nothing in him beyond his hauling lungs and swinging blade. Dark shapes were pressing in on his prone form.

  And then there was a break in the wall of flesh which surrounded him. The light of the grey skies poured down on Roper.

  A dead Sutherner had crashed into the waters at his feet in a spray of blood and there was a shout of alarm. A flash of light carved through another two Sutherners who were hurled backwards and an enormous shadow stepped into the gap they had left. The figure raised its great light blade again and sparks sprang away from it as it swept along a Suthern weapon, taking the top of a man’s skull off as if it were an apple. Like rows of wheat, the Sutherners were falling before this harvester until Roper’s final two attackers fled, splashing away through the waters.

  A hand seized Roper’s collar and dragged him up and out. Roper screamed again as the spear was ripped from his flesh but his rescuer took no notice, hauling him from the scene. The shock almost made Roper drop his sword, but his groping fingers managed to just clutch the pommel as he was hauled away. “My lord father!” he roared as he was dragged back. “The Black Lord! He’s there! Get him!”

  More hands seized Roper and Anakim swarmed around him, flooding between him and the Suthern ranks. “Release me!” he shouted. It was the Sacred Guard. The finest fighting unit in the world had arrived, honour-bound to preserve the blood that surged through Roper.

  Roper received as little mercy from their treatment as had the Sutherners. His protestations were ignored as he was dragged from the front line and violence erupted all about him. He was allowed to collapse at last, dazed and bleeding, into the waters forty yards from the melee. His eyes focused on the man who had held his collar and who had surely rescued him from death.
It was a Blackstone, though Roper did not know his name. He demanded it of the man.

  “Helmec, my lord.”

  The words “my lord” jarred with Roper, though he could not have said why. “I’ll make a guardsman of you, Helmec.”

  Helmec stared. Enough sense was returning to Roper for him to be able to take in some of the man’s face. He must have been young, but it was difficult to tell beneath a mask of scars. One of his cheeks was so shredded that the interior of his mouth was visible through the old wounds. He held himself with the demeanour of a veteran: weary and assured, though there had been no weariness in his defence of Roper. “My lord …”

  There it was again. Lord.

  Men were gathering around Roper like lost sheep, though seemingly not daring to ask anything of him. A vague sense of responsibility began to press against him.

  “A horse,” murmured Roper. Perhaps things would be clearer on horseback. One was brought to him and when he could not mount on his savaged leg, Helmec was there again to help him into the saddle. “Obliged,” he muttered, turning the horse towards where the Sacred Guard had turned the flood waters a boiling red.

  Uvoren was in the thick of the fighting, Marrow-Hunter in hand. Roper watched him take a great overhead swing at a Sutherner, dismissing the feeble block raised against him and flattening his opponent. The rest of the Sacred Guard were shredding the lightly armoured longbowmen they faced, but outside this martial mismatch the Anakim were in dire trouble. The Blackstone Legion appeared to have dissolved into the flooding as arrows continued to rain down on them, and the rest of the army was scarcely in a better position. Still stationary, they endured the sting of arrows from the ridge without shields to hide behind. Bone- and steel-armour were limiting the damage but the effect on morale was worse. The Sutherners had not advanced, content to let their arrows work for them.

  “Lord?” said a voice behind Roper. He turned to see half a dozen mounted aides staring at him. Roper nodded at them and turned back to the battle. Almighty god, what now? It did not feel as though there was any way back from here. His Left could not advance; something beneath the water was preventing it. If the rest of the army moved forward, Roper was not even sure that they would be able to climb the slick ridge. They would take many casualties; that much was certain and their Left would be exposed to flanking attacks. But what is the alternative? What if we retreat? He could hardly breathe. Or maybe it was just that his breathing had ceased to be effective.

  “Lord?” Again, more persistent. Roper was trembling now. His mouth formed several words but none of them made it past his lips.

  What now? Almighty, help me! What now?

  “My lord!”

  Preserve the legions, Roper.

  “We retreat,” said Roper, inflecting the order as though it were a question. “Retreat,” he said again, agitated. “The cavalry are to cover us.” He almost added: I think.

  The aides stared at him. “Lord?” said one, confused. “That isn’t …”

  “Retreat!” insisted Roper. “Retreat!” A thought struck him. “Keep the cavalry clear of the waters around the Blackstones.” One of the aides nodded and pulled his horse away, signalling to a trumpeter. The others followed suit and the trumpet sounded. The legions juddered into life again. Discipline will save us, thought Roper as the legions about-turned and began to march away, arrows still spitting into the water around them. As the Sutherners saw the forces of the Black Kingdom begin to turn away, there came a great cheer and howl of derision from the ridge. A rumbling began, so deep that at first Roper thought it was distant thunder. Then he realised that the Suthern cavalry had begun to surge after the legions.

  Then Uvoren was by Roper’s side. He was on horseback and began snarling orders, sending aides scurrying across the battlefield and a string of trumpet notes blasting out. The cavalry was called into action and rode forward to cover the legions’ retreat. Uvoren glanced at Roper. “You have an arrow in your shoulder, Roper.” Almighty god. Roper swayed in his saddle. Uvoren stared for a moment, seeming fascinated.

  Across the waters, behind the Blackstone Legion that was staggering away from the battle leaving behind as many as were able to retreat, Roper saw a familiar flash of steel. Earl William was there on horseback, surrounded by his knightly bodyguard, and he had found a new breastplate, quite as magnificent as the one Kynortas had torn from his chest. His horse stood among the longbowmen who still peppered the retreating Blackstones and he was gesticulating at a trumpeter, who appeared to be pulling the strings of the Suthern cavalry. Bellamus was nowhere to be seen; it seemed Earl William had assumed command of this corner of the battlefield.

  Suddenly, there was screaming from Roper’s right. He turned just in time to see a figure bolting through the flooding; a dark blur of striking rapidity. Alone, this warrior was charging for the Suthern ranks, changing direction violently and somehow sprinting right through the first line of soldiers. Sutherners were pushing towards him, trying to stop him but always left swinging at thin air as the figure seared through their loose ranks. Roper’s mouth fell open; the warrior was heading for Earl William. It was a Sacred Guardsman, his ponytail exceptionally long, single-handedly charging the Suthern leader. In his wake he left a trail of spray and bamboozled Suthern warriors and he hurtled right through the enemy ranks and into the clear waters behind.

  Uvoren had seen him too. “Make room for your lictor!” The Sacred Guard obeyed, surging forward once more and driving a wedge into the Suthern line. They were evidently seeking to open a return path for the nameless warrior who was now nearing Earl William.

  Earl William’s bodyguards had spotted the radical. Half a dozen armoured knights, lances lowered, charged. The guardsman changed tack, heading for the outside of the formation and drawing his sword. It was the work of an instant and a whirl of metal: the figure, dwarfing the riders he faced, had beaten aside two lances and slipped between the knights. He was through, with nothing standing between him and Earl William. The latter had realised the danger he faced and desperately pulled his horse away, attempting to spur for safety.

  He had left it too late. The guardsman was upon him before his horse had taken more than a few strides and he had seized Earl William’s boot, dragging him from the saddle to crash into the water. The blade rose high and then plunged into the obscured form in the water; twice. The guardsman straightened up and held up something soaking, turning around to show it to both Suthern and Anakim army.

  Earl William’s head.

  His long curls were held in the guardsman’s enormous hand and water and blood trickled from beard and neck. The guardsman cast it aside contemptuously and turned back to the knights, who had now turned and converged on him. He disappeared from Roper’s view, hidden behind thrusting horses.

  Somebody smacked Roper in the back of the head. He turned and Uvoren rode past him. “Move,” he called over his shoulder. “Pryce has given us some time. We’re leaving.” Pryce? Roper looked back to the guardsman who had slain Earl William and could scarcely credit his eyes when he saw that he had re-emerged. Two horses lay in the water, screaming in pain. Another one had no rider and the remaining knights were not pressing their attack, wary of the guardsman who had begun to run again. The Sacred Guard had opened a corridor for him in the Suthern ranks and held it as the lone hero returned.

  So this is war.

  The Black Legions were in headlong retreat. They were marshalled into columns by their officers, who threw confused looks at where the Almighty Eye of the Sacred Guard flew and where they knew somebody must be in command. Thousands of Anakim bodies lay in the flooding, arrows protruding from their flesh and bodies weighted down by armour. Only the Sacred Guard had shed Suthern blood and that because they had been forced to in defence of Roper. Trumpets were pealing out across the battlefield as the Anakim army condensed and the Suthern cavalry tore after them, searching for an opening. They were being held back by the Anakim cavalry, which was charging and re-charging, using thei
r discipline to extricate the legions.

  Pandemonium. Hundreds of Blackstones were half crawling, half swimming after the retreating soldiers. The other warriors, no longer in neat ranks but wading as quickly as they could through the flooding, were streaming away from the ridge where the Suthern infantry had begun to advance.

  The Sutherners were after them.

  2

  The Hindrunn

  There was always one oasis of calm in the Black Kingdom. Regardless of what war ravaged the rest of it, the great fastness at the border, the Hindrunn, would be safe. Built over centuries by one of Roper’s ancestors, it was a thirteen-hundred-year-old honeycomb of black granite, lead and flint. Its presence, so dark and malevolent when observed from Suthdal—the land below the River Abus, occupied by the Sutherners—was the reason the border had barely changed over centuries. Within its tangle of broad, cobbled streets dwelt the legions.

  When these returned, tradition dictated that they should be greeted by the women and children of the fortress. Crowds would line the streets, armed with little bunches of herbs to be thrown into the path of the legions. The bitter smell of rosemary, lemon balm and comfrey, crushed underfoot, was an evocation of celebration and relief. The warriors had returned home and once again they had been successful. Word would already have reached the Hindrunn of who had fought with particular bravery or skill and their names would be called out by the throng. The young boys would watch their warriors, imagining the day when the armour of the Black Kingdom would fit them and when it would be their turn to march through these streets.